


Blood Brothers

by Suzie_Shooter



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Changing the past, Coffee Shops, Dream Sequences, Friendship, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Modern Setting, Past Lives, Reincarnation, Sexual Content, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Present day: Athos is having nightmares about a massacre. But are they really only dreams, and if they're not, how can he possibly stop a tragedy that happened nearly four hundred years ago?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Brothers

There was blood in the water. It spread and curled in slow billows, darker than ink, thicker than paint. His eyes tracked its path back, horrified and fascinated, to where it dripped, steady and relentless, from the ruins of a throat. 

He felt himself choking in reaction, trying to unsee it, his eyes refusing obstinately to close. Grass soaked black with gore, long dark hair tangled across the young man's face, his eyes wide and unseeing in death.

\--

Athos sat bolt upright in bed, chest heaving and gasping for breath as if he'd been running for his life. He bent over, elbows resting on his drawn up knees, head in one hand, fingers of the other splayed about his throat, shuddering from head to foot.

"Wha's the matter?" The slurred query came from beside him, the duvet pushed back in sleepy consternation. Athos could just make out dark hair, dark eyes, peering at him through the dim illumination of the streetlight outside. He struggled for a name.

Porthos? He was fairly sure it had been Porthos. 

"Nothing. Sorry. Go back to sleep." Athos hedged his bets, deciding after all he wasn't a hundred percent certain. It would be embarrassing to call him the wrong thing.

Possibly-Porthos grunted and rolled over, pulling the duvet with him and leaving Athos half-exposed. He waited until his sleeping partner's breathing had evened out again and slipped right out of the bed, pulling a dressing gown on over his naked body. He tripped over a coil of material that turned out to be a pair of jeans that weren't his, and throwing a cautious look at the bed, felt in the pockets until his fingers closed around the shape of a wallet.

Athos carried his prize out to the hallway and turned on the light, blinking painfully in the harsh glare until he could see properly. Flipped open the wallet and found what he was looking for - a driver's licence.

The face of the man currently asleep in his bed stared back at him, with the defiant and slightly criminal expression that every official rendering of a passport-sized photo seemed to produce.

Porthos du Vallon. He'd been right, at least. Athos tucked the licence back and tossed the wallet into the bedroom in the vague direction of Porthos' jeans, before heading for the kitchen. He needed a cup of tea. More than that, he needed a cigarette.

He opened the cupboard and took down the biscuit tin that about three Christmases ago had housed Danish butter cookies, and was now home to his secret stash.

It was empty, barring a folded note.

_You gave up, remember?_

It wasn't his handwriting, and he crumpled it with a groan of annoyance. How the fuck had Constance found them?

He made a mug of tea instead, sighing. She was right, he _had_ given up. Several times. He just hadn't bargained on having such a hideous nightmare.

Athos rubbed his face and shivered. It wasn't that he was cold, he just couldn't seem to shake off the remnants of the dream. It had seemed so real, so vivid. He could still remember the face of the corpse, could remember the feeling of sick devastation that had swept over him.

What the hell had prompted something like that? Okay, he'd been shitfaced when he went to bed, but that normally meant he slept like the dead.

The unfortunate turn of phrase made him shudder superstitiously and he pulled the dressing gown tighter, knotting the belt firmly around his waist.

Athos carried his tea into the lounge and sat down at the table. The clock said it was ten past three in the morning. He'd only been asleep two hours, in that case. They'd staggered in around midnight, fucked like drunken sex-crazed rabbits, and passed out with the minimum exchange of social niceties.

Porthos. They'd met in a club that evening, both already half-cut. Porthos had walked into him, spilled Athos' drink down his shirt. He'd apologised with the wary look of someone expecting to be called outside over it, but Athos had given him one slow up and down look of consideration and declared that he'd forgive him in return for a dance. 

Two hours later they'd been in bed. Two hours after that, Athos was feeling somehow more sober than he had for years, and not liking it one bit.

He drank his tea and sat staring into the empty mug, as if might hold the answers. 

Athos wasn't sure how long he'd been sitting there when a movement at the edge of his vision made him jump. He looked up to find Porthos standing naked in the doorway, looking sleep-crumpled and uncertain.

"Would you rather I left?" he asked awkwardly, clearly perturbed by Athos' night time perambulations.

"No. No, sorry." Athos got to his feet. "I couldn't sleep, that's all. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Bad dreams?" Porthos guessed astutely, and Athos flushed.

"I'm fine. I'm was just coming back. Let's go to bed, yeah?"

Porthos looked at him for a moment before nodding. "If you're sure you wouldn't rather I went? I don't want to outstay my welcome."

Athos smiled then, and patted him on the arm. "Do I look such a bad host I'd turf you out in the middle of the night?" 

"Some would." But Porthos smiled at him, and together they climbed back into bed. This time Athos made sure to get a fair share of the duvet, and as he faced the uneasy prospect of going back to sleep and the possible nightmares that might wait for him there, he was more touched than he could express when Porthos slid an arm round his waist without being asked, and settled peacefully at his back.

\--

In the morning they parted friends, although with few words exchanged. Porthos was running late and massively hungover, and Athos was still dazed from the deep sleep he'd been pulled out of by Porthos swearing as he stumbled around the room hastily dressing.

Porthos had kissed him on the lips before he left, and they'd exchanged numbers, although neither really imagined they'd see each other again. It had been a casual hook-up, no more, recollections already blurred by the amount of alcohol they'd drunk.

When he'd gone Athos tried to snatch some more sleep, but couldn't drop off. He finally got up and showered instead, using the time to have a half-hearted wank to what he could remember of the night before. Porthos had been a vigorous lover, and Athos could still feel the lingering ache of it inside him. 

He finally came over his hand with a stifled moan of not-quite satisfaction. The drops splattering into the water and down the drain reminded him uncomfortably of the dripping blood in his dream, for all that they were white and not red. He shut the shower off and stumbled out, feeling suddenly sick.

Shuffling back into the bedroom to get dressed, Athos' foot kicked something lying on the carpet that skittered under the chest of drawers. Frowning, he fished it out and looked at it. It was Porthos' wallet.

"Shit." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. How had Porthos not noticed it was missing? Although he had dressed in a hurry.

Athos yawned and picked up his phone, scrolling through to the most recent entry.

Porthos picked up on the fourth ring, sounding suspicious. Athos couldn't blame him. It must look fairly odd to have your one night stand call you barely an hour after you'd left his house.

"It's me," he said unnecessarily, knowing his name would be blazoned across the screen. He'd thumbed it in himself. "You left your wallet here."

"Oh, thank fuck. I thought I must have dropped it in the club." Porthos' tone suddenly became a lot friendlier, and Athos prudently refrained from mentioning that he'd taken it out of his pocket.

"Look, I'm at work, I can't come back for it now. Could I, er, meet you later?" Porthos named a cafe and a street, and Athos agreed. He didn't have anywhere to be himself, and figured he owed it to Porthos to take the thing wherever he wanted. 

"How's five suit you? Okay, see you then." Athos hung up and found to his surprise he was smiling slightly at the prospect of seeing him again. 

\--

Athos was early and took a seat by the window, settling down with a coffee to wait for Porthos to arrive. He figured Porthos would leave it a certain amount of time before showing up, just to make sure Athos was there - possibly not having any money on him without his wallet. Sure enough it was nearly a quarter past before the door jangled open and Porthos walked in, hair damp from the early evening drizzle.

Athos waved him over, and Porthos took the seat opposite with a tired grunt and nod of greeting. Athos slid the wallet across the table to him without preamble, not wanting to make things awkward if Porthos wanted to just collect it and go.

Porthos though, once settled, seemed in no rush to abandon him and ordered a hot chocolate and a sandwich.

"Haven't eaten all day," he explained sheepishly. "Didn't have any cash."

"Shit." Athos felt a spike of guilt. "You should have said, I could have brought it sooner."

Porthos shrugged. "No worries. Was too hungover to eat earlier anyway." He grinned, and the tired, rather grumpy looking lines vanished from his face in an instant. "Thanks for bringing it. And - thanks for last night. I never really said."

"Well. Thank you, too, in that case," Athos murmured, taking a sip of his coffee to hide a smile.

The waiter came over with Porthos' order and Athos glanced up automatically, before reflexively jerking so hard that he hit the table and overturned his mug.

"Aw, Jesus!" Porthos was on his feet, coffee soaking into his jeans.

"God, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Athos grabbed a handful of napkins and tried to dab at Porthos' legs, before being shoved off with an irate hand.

"Give me them." Porthos snatched the bundle of paper towels from him and scrubbed at the stains futilely. Eventually he sank back into his chair with a groan. "Today has been just one fucking thing after another."

"Sorry," Athos told him again, wincing. 

"What the fuck happened?" Porthos demanded, abandoning his wet jeans as a bad job and taking a bite of his sandwich instead, which had fortunately missed the deluge. "You looked like you got stung by a bee or something. Or was that just revenge for me spilling your drink last night?"

Athos shook his head. "If I tell you, you'll think I'm crazy."

At that point their waiter came back with a cloth and a tray, and wiped the table down before putting a fresh cup in front of Athos with a wink.

"On the house. Both of you. Today's been shit and you just gave me the best laugh I've had all day." He grinned and walked off, leaving Athos staring after him in open-mouthed astonishment.

Porthos snorted. "You'll catch flies if you stay like that much longer." He glanced over at the boy now cleaning down another table and smirked. "Looks like you might be in there," he murmured, taking Athos' fixated stare for sexual interest.

"What? No!" Athos looked back at him and blinked. "No." He laughed quietly. "Hardly my type."

"No?" Porthos finished the first half of his sandwich and started on the second, looking slightly mollified.

"No." Athos smiled at him, and after a second Porthos smiled back.

"So go on then. Tell me the crazy thing," he pressed. "The lukewarm coffee currently soaking into my balls says you owe me the answer." 

Athos sighed. "I just - it was the waiter." He cast a surreptitious look across the cafe, wondering if he'd been mistaken. But no, a longer look only confirmed his first impression. "I had a bad dream last night."

"I know. You woke me up," Porthos remarked hard-heartedly, pushing away his empty plate and starting in on his hot chocolate.

"Sorry," Athos said, rather vaguely. He was still staring at the waiter. D'Artagnan, his name tag had read. He was sure he'd never met him before, had never been in this cafe in his life.

"So?" Porthos prompted, nudging him under the table with his foot. 

"Hmmn? Oh." Athos returned his attention to Porthos. "Well, he was in it. The waiter." He sighed, staring down into his coffee. There was a dark swirl in the foam unpleasantly reminiscent of blood spiralling down a drain. "He was dead."

Porthos made a face. "That's a bit morbid."

"No, you don't understand." Athos half reached across the table pleadingly, before realising what he was doing and pulling his hands back. "I've never seen him before. Ever. But it was him." He stared at Porthos desperately. "How can that be?"

Porthos shrugged. "You must have seen him somewhere. Or he's just a bit similar and your brain's filling in the gaps. Dreams are fuzzy like that, right? Mine are, anyway."

Athos shook his head slowly. "This wasn't. It was more like a memory. It was so clear."

"So what happened? In the dream I mean?" Porthos persisted, not really taking it seriously but conscious that Athos seemed genuinely unsettled by it.

"His throat had been cut." Athos stared down at the coffee, then pushed it away from him. 

"D'you not want that?" Porthos asked, and when Athos shook his head, he picked up the cup.

Athos frowned. "You really are hungry."

"Told you, I haven't had anything all day." Porthos looked at him consideringly, then grinned. "Tell you what though. To make up for pouring coffee all over me, you could totally buy me dinner."

Athos looked up at him in surprise, then smiled. "All right. Why not."

"You have to promise not to talk about people having their throat cut though," Porthos told him. "Or I'm gonna start thinking you're a psychopath."

"I'm not, I promise." Athos sighed. "It was just a dream." He resolved to put the whole thing out of his mind, particularly in view of the fact his evening was unexpectedly looking up. But as they left the cafe, he couldn't stop himself glancing back. 

The waiter, d'Artagnan, was looking over at them as they left, and their eyes met. Athos smiled awkwardly and stepped hastily outside after Porthos, unable to stop a shiver running down his back. A phrase floated unbidden through his mind. _Like someone walking over your grave._

\--

They went to a bar first and then on to a Greek restaurant that Porthos knew of, and somewhat to their surprise passed a very pleasant evening in each other's company. While from widely differing backgrounds and life experiences, they found they had more common ground than either had expected, and when they finally turned out into what had become determinedly driving rain, both had accepted without the question really being raised, that they were going to sleep together again.

Porthos, having by this point spent two days in the same clothes, insisted they went back to his flat.

"I share, but Aramis works nights, so he shouldn't be in," Porthos told him a little anxiously. "Is that okay?"

Athos shrugged. "As long as he doesn't mind my being there when he comes back," he said, pleasantly warmed by the wine and after-dinner brandy they'd consumed, to the point he was hardly feeling the rain at all.

"He won't. He pulls more often than I do," Porthos said without thinking, then winced. "I mean, er - "

Athos linked his arm through Porthos' and smirked at him. "It's okay. You can pull me as much as you like. I shan't object. Quite the contrary, in fact."

Porthos snorted with laughter, pushed Athos up against the nearest convenient wall and proceeded to snog him breathless. 

It took them rather longer to get back than the journey warranted, as they kept stopping along the way to kiss each other. Athos couldn't really remember if they'd kissed much the night before - he supposed they must have at some point - but right now it was if they'd invented a new game, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed kissing someone so much.

When they finally reached the flat, in a rather more run down area of the city than Athos', they were cold and wet and starting to shiver. Porthos' leather jacket was dripping with rain and Athos' woollen coat was soaked through. 

Porthos helped him off with it and hung it over the kitchen door to dry. 

"Did you want a hot drink or anything?"

Athos shook his head. "I'm fine, thanks. I'd just like to get out of these wet things."

Porthos grinned. "I like a man who gets right to the point." He shed his own coat and hung it over a chair, then went on to kick off his boots, unzip his jeans and step out of them in the middle of the kitchen. "They'll need washing," he explained, kicking them in the direction of the washing machine and leaving them there.

"Yes. Sorry about that," Athos murmured. "I just got rather a shock."

"Oh yeah. Meeting your dream guy, right?" Porthos teased.

"Hardly." Athos let Porthos shepherd him into one of the bedrooms, where he took off his clothes and got thankfully into the bed with him, where they proceeded to warm each other up in a variety of clumsily enthusiastic ways.

They ended up with Athos straddling Porthos' legs, head thrown back and riding his cock in glorious abandon. Porthos drove into him with a strength that left Athos breathless, and by the point they collapsed against each other in climax they were laughing and groaning at the same time.

While Porthos disposed of the condom Athos lay there and watched him in a daze, wondering for the first time if perhaps they could see each other again. He'd never really considered himself one for relationships, but when you found someone who not only was really nice but could explode your world from, as it were, the bottom up, maybe you should think about hanging on to them?

Porthos climbed back in beside him and turned out the light, and Athos wriggled closer to his warmth. He fell asleep with a smile on his face. 

\--

He thought at first it was fog, until the acrid tang caught in his throat and made him cough. Smoke then, coiling wreaths that wound around him and made it hard to see. Shapes loomed up in the haze and he froze, expecting people, but they were only trees.

It was naturally the moment he'd relaxed that the man lurched out of the smoke and into his arms. Athos staggered back beneath the weight of him, staring into the man's desperate, pleading eyes. The face was pale, too pale, and as Athos looked down towards the vice-like grip on his wrists, he saw blood blossoming through the man's shirt and knew, somehow, that he'd been shot.

As the man fell to his knees, he managed one hoarse word before toppling sideways into the grass, quite dead. 

"Run."

\--

Athos' eyes sprang open and he gasped in a frantic breath, still expecting to choke on the enveloping smoke. Finding himself in a strange bed was even more disorienting and he stretched out without thinking, his foot making contact with someone lying beside him.

There was a murmured protest, and Porthos rolled over.

"Ow."

"Sorry." Athos couldn't keep the shake out of his voice, and Porthos frowned at him.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Just - just a bad dream again. Sorry."

Porthos grunted and gathered him sleepily into his arms. "Same as before?"

"Sort of. Different man this time. He'd been shot." Athos burrowed against Porthos' chest gratefully. 

"Your subconscious needs fumigating, you ask me," Porthos muttered, but he squeezed Athos reassuringly tight, and they drifted off again still entwined.

\--

When Athos woke the next morning he was alone in the bed but he could hear muted voices coming from the kitchen. He dressed quickly, and slipped into the adjacent bathroom to splash water on his face and use the loo. He stared at himself in the mirror. Tousled hair and red eyes. Not the most prepossessing impression. He sighed, washing his hands and venturing out into the flat.

Porthos was standing with a mug in one hand talking to another man who Athos presumed was his flatmate. When he saw Athos, Porthos gave him a grin.

"Morning. Want a coffee? This is Aramis by the way. Aramis - Athos."

The second man turned around with a smile of polite interest, and Athos had the sudden feeling of the world spinning around him. He took a physical step backwards and collided painfully with the door jamb.

"Athos? What's wrong, you look like you've seen a ghost." Porthos groaned. "Oh shit, you don't know each other do you? Tell me you're not one of Aramis' exes."

Aramis was shaking his head looking confused and slightly embarrassed at Athos' reaction. "I don't think we've met?"

Athos was trying to get himself under control, but it wasn't easy. "Sorry. I just - you were in my dream. Last night," he blurted.

Aramis laughed, but Porthos' expression clouded and his heart sank. Athos was obviously going to keep doing this, and whether it was attention seeking or something more worrying, it clearly spelled trouble.

"You have a lot of nightmares, don't you?" Porthos muttered.

"Not normally," Athos protested.

"No? Maybe it's just my influence then. Maybe we'd be better off apart."

"What?" Athos looked stricken and Porthos felt like a heel, but he'd dealt with too many weirdoes in the past to risk getting caught up with another one. 

"Have you considered drinking less?" Porthos said, meaning to be helpful, but Athos looked cut to the quick.

"What exactly are you implying?" The more indignant he got, the posher and more clipped his voice got, and Porthos told himself that was another reason it would never have worked out. They were too different. Better to cut it off now.

"Well, you can't half put it away. Maybe a bit less'd give you better dreams, eh?"

Athos was rendered temporarily speechless. He hadn't thought he'd drunk that much more than Porthos, which made it feel doubly unfair. And besides, the drink had nothing to do with it. He had enough experience of it to know that.

"Look, Athos - we had a good time, yeah? But I think - "

Athos held up a hand, cutting him off. "How about you let us both retain a shred of dignity and don't finish that sentence. I'll go. I'm sorry." He gave Aramis a tight smile of apology and walked out without meeting Porthos' eyes.

When he'd gone, Porthos sank into a chair and groaned.

"Fuck." 

"That was - intense," Aramis said, patting him commiseratingly on the shoulder. "And I thought I picked the odd ones."

"He was nice," Porthos protested. "I really liked him and all." He put his head in his hands and sighed. "Why me?"

Aramis was looking at a coat hung over the kitchen door and frowning. "Porthos? Is this yours?"

Porthos looked up and made a face. "Oh _shit_."

"Didn't think so. Must have cost a week's rent." Aramis held it out. "If you're quick you'll catch him."

Porthos stared at him mutinously then snatched the coat and ran out of the door. 

The lifts were out of order - again - and as he hurried down the stairs he muttered irritably to himself with every step. Going after him like this was gong to make Athos think he wanted him back. It was going to be humiliating for both of them.

"Hey! Athos." The figure ahead of him had almost reached the front doors and sure enough Porthos was close enough to see the brief spark of hope in his expression as he turned round.

Porthos held out the coat, and Athos quickly schooled his features into something more neutral.

"Oh. Thank you."

"No problem." 

They looked at each other a little awkwardly. 

"I'm sorry," Athos said finally. "I didn't mean to come over all weird like that. I'm not normally this much trouble." He gave Porthos a tentative smile.

"Look - are you alright?" Porthos asked him. "I mean - do you need help?"

"I'm not crazy!" Athos glared at him, and Porthos held his hands up. Athos' conviction wavered a little. "Am I?"

Porthos shrugged. "Crazy or psychic. One or the other." He sighed. "Look, it was nice, yeah? We had a good time. It was what it was. Let's not end on a sour note."

Athos nodded, relieved. "It was nice," he agreed, managing a smile. "Thank you."

They hugged each other then, and Porthos kissed him on the cheek before turning to make his way upstairs without looking back.

\--

Athos spent the rest of the day in a rather miserable daze. He was embarrassed at the way things had turned out, and angry with himself for screwing up something that had definitely had potential. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted a _drink_. 

He sprawled out on the sofa, groaning. Was Porthos right, could it all be essentially boiled down to a case of indigestion? But that didn't explain how he'd conjured up the faces of those two men. The connection he'd felt with them in his dream, on some bone-deep, almost spiritual level. 

Maybe he was cracking up. Maybe the waiter was a jobbing actor and he'd seen him in some bit part on the telly. Maybe there'd been a photograph of Aramis in the flat he'd seen the night before without taking it in.

His phone rang and he snatched it up, his traitorous heart hoping it was miraculously Porthos. It wasn't.

"Hi Constance."

"Hey you. How's things?"

"Terrible." Athos pinched his eyes shut and sighed. "I'm a mess, and I need a cigarette. And _somebody_ pinched them."

"Well, as you don't smoke any more, how could there possibly be any to pinch?" she asked brightly, then softened her tone. "Are you okay? You sound rough. Want to meet for a coffee or something?"

"Yeah, that would be good actually." Get his head a bit clearer maybe. Lay it all out to someone else. "And I know just the place."

\--

Arriving together from different directions, Athos met Constance at the door of the cafe. She gave him a hug and a smile of genuine warmth and he immediately felt slightly better. 

Constance was a fashion designer, they'd met a couple of years earlier at a party where a mutual acquaintance had tried to set them up with each other. Having swiftly established to their relief that neither was remotely interested in the other, a friendship had evolved that had since stood the test of time.

Athos automatically lead them to the same table he'd shared with Porthos, and couldn't help the slight quickening of nervous anticipation as d'Artagnan came over to take their order.

"I hope that dress is waterproof," d'Artagnan grinned at Constance.

"What _do_ you mean?" she asked in astonishment, hardly knowing whether to laugh or be offended.

He nodded at Athos. "Last time he was in here he caused havoc. Caffeinated tidal wave. Managed to get it all over the bloke he was with and not a drop on himself though, so maybe not as daft as he looks." He winked at Athos, who was trying not to laugh with embarrassment.

"Hang on, what bloke?" Constance demanded, looking from d'Artagnan to Athos. "You've got a bloke? Since when? What's he like?" This last question was directed not at Athos but d'Artagnan, Constance apparently wanting an impartial opinion.

D'Artagnan made a circle of his thumb and forefinger in a gesture of approval. "Shit hot."

Athos felt a rueful smile tug at his lips. He'd thought there'd been a level of interest from d’Artagnan that suggested he'd felt the same strange connection - but after all it had only been that d'Artagnan fancied Porthos. He'd been an idiot, all along.

They placed their order for a pot of tea and Constance propped her elbows on the table, chin in hands, and gazed determinedly at Athos. "Right. Spill. What's up, and why do you look so miserable if you've got a new man?"

"I haven't," Athos sighed. "It was just a - well, a two-night one night stand if you like."

"Two whole nights?" Constance pretended to look impressed. "That's practically a committed relationship, coming from you. Did you get this one's name?"

Athos withstood the teasing good-naturedly, knowing he deserved it and also that Constance only ever had his best interests at heart. 

"Porthos," he told her, and it felt tragically good to feel the shape of the name on his lips. "Porthos du Vallon," he added, just for the sake of being able to say it again.

"Blimey, a full name and everything. It must be love!" 

It occurred to Athos that technically Porthos had never told him his surname, and if he ever found out Athos had discovered it by taking his wallet it would only add substance to his conviction that Athos was some kind of weirdo. In fact right now he wasn't entirely certain that Porthos was wrong.

He groaned, and Constance reached out to cover his hand with hers. "What's wrong kitten?"

"I've been having these dreams. Nightmares, really." Athos stared into his teacup and sighed, reliving the events in his mind's eye. "Two nights in a row. There are these men - I've never seen them before, but in the dream I know them. And they're killed. Murdered."

"By you?" 

Athos looked up sharply, startled by Constance's question. "No! No. At least - I don't think so. No, the second one tried to warn me. But - it feels like - it was my fault, somehow. That I could have prevented it. Should have stopped it happening."

"Sounds like you're feeling guilty about something, maybe?" Constance suggested. 

Athos gave her a bleak smile. "When don't I? But no, this is different. You see, I - I met them. Afterwards."

"Met who?"

"The men in my dreams." 

"Okay, you've officially lost me."

Athos leaned forwards, eyes intent. "I know it sounds crazy. And believe me, I've gone through every rational explanation I can think of, but all I can say is that none of them feel right. I dreamt - on two separate occasions - of men I'd never seen in my life before, whom I then met in person the following day."

Constance looked at him askance. "So what are you saying? You think you're somehow - predicting their deaths?"

"No. I'm saying I think they've already happened." Athos winced, realising how that sounded. "I mean - they look different. In the dream. Their clothes are sort of - " Athos waved his hand around vaguely. "Historical. And Aramis had this - " he gestured helplessly at his face - "really neat moustache and beard in the dream, but in person he was just a bit unshaven, and his hair was longer. And d'Artagnan has shorter hair now."

"Aramis? Who's Aramis?" Constance was looking more baffled by the minute. "And - hang on, wasn't the waiter called d'Artagnan?" She looked over at where he was serving some people at the counter, and back to Athos. "Are you saying it was _him_?"

"Yes." Athos nodded enthusiastically. "And Aramis was Porthos' flatmate."

Constance sat back in her chair and looked at him levelly. "Let me guess. You laid all this on Porthos and he ran a mile?"

Athos sighed, deflating a little. "Yes. He thinks I'm a fruit loop."

"Can you blame him?"

Athos looked at her, a little hurt. "Do you think I'm a fruit loop then?"

Constance grinned. "Yeah, but then I always have." She poured him more tea and patted his hand. "Cheer up! It was just a dream. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something, or maybe you just ate too much cheese. But it's not the end of the world."

"It was for them," Athos murmured.

Constance stirred sugar into her tea and came to a decision, pulling a sketchpad out of her bag. "Right. Come on then. Historical's much too vague. What sort of clothes were they wearing? Clothes I can do." She wagged a pencil at him. "Come on. Hats? Tunic? Trousers?"

Athos blinked at her. "Thought you'd decided I was nuts?"

"It's not going to hurt to work through it, is it? I mean, if we can figure out what you're seeing, maybe we can work out where you've picked the images up from." She smiled, brisk and reassuring. "It'll put your mind at ease. There has to _be_ an explanation, stuff doesn't just come out of nowhere. Maybe we can figure out the connection."

Sceptical of the value of it but touched by Constance's concern, Athos did his best to describe the way they'd looked, and the deft strokes of Constance's pencil soon produced an approximation of their outfits. 

"It's not a lot to go on," Constance said dubiously, as Athos stole her pencil and sketched in a moustache above the clothes belonging to Aramis. 

"There was a lot of leather."

She snorted. "Now that definitely sounds like your subconscious talking."

Athos glanced up and smiled properly for the first time since they'd sat down. "Hey. I'm not that bad." She raised an eyebrow and he half-laughed. "Okay, maybe I am. But can you blame me? First person in years I feel I could actually give a shit about and I manage to screw it up in under two days." 

As he was talking he was idly sketching a design on the edge of the paper, and Constance tilted her head trying to make it out. "What's that?"

Athos shrugged. "They were wearing it, both of them. On a kind of shoulder-pad thing. Can't think of the name of it."

"Fleur-de-lys."

The answer came from an unexpected source, and they both looked up in surprise to find d'Artagnan standing over their table, having come over to see if they wanted anything else. Athos and Constance both stared at him until he fidgeted uncomfortably. "What?"

"Do you know what this is from?" Athos asked eagerly. "Who would wear a device with it on like this?"

"Pretty common to be honest." D'Artagnan loaded the empty teapot onto his tray. "Started with French royalty I think. It was used by the Musketeers in the seventeenth century though. That'd fit with your costume designs," he offered, studying Constance's drawings.

"Musketeers?" Athos stared at him, taken both by the idea and who it had come from. "What makes you say that?" he pressed. "Have you seen this before? It wasn't in a dream was it?"

D'Artagnan gave him an odd look. "Er - no? My uncle's into all that stuff. Bit of a military nut. Hard to escape some of it sinking in." He grinned. "You guys want some more tea?"

\--

The going was hard, and Athos realised his boots were clogged with thick mud, making walking an effort. His lungs felt strained as if he'd been running, and his head swam. He clutched at the nearest tree for support, feeling like he was going to throw up, his vision blurring in and out. There were gunshots nearby, both frighteningly loud and yet somehow muffled, as if experienced through a filter.

He looked down. There was a smear of blood on his hands, and he knew it belonged to Aramis. He forced himself upright, staggering onwards, knowing in his heart it was too late but having to try. To save the one person left. The one man of all his brothers he cared the deepest for, beyond and above the bonds of friendship and arms. 

A crashing in the undergrowth and suddenly they were face to face. A brief second of groundless hope, then Athos saw the deathly pallor beneath the dark skin, the hilt of the knife jutting out from between his ribs.

Watching, helpless, as accusing eyes met his.

"You weren't there. You were _supposed_ to be _there_." 

Hands closing around the hilt of the dagger, and Athos realising too late what he meant to do.

"No!"

The gush of red lifeblood that fountained forth in the wake of the blade, the choking noise he made, red foam flecking his lips. Athos grabbing him, holding him, trying to staunch the flow with his bare hands. Too late. All too late. Hundreds of years too late.

Athos fell to his knees, supporting the lifeless form of his friend and lover, and wept bitter tears into his hair.

" _Porthos_."

\--

The next morning Athos struggled out of bed feeling as rough as if he'd drunk two bottles of wine, rather than the two glasses he'd actually had to help him sleep. A shower revived him to some extent, but despite having been out of it for a good seven hours he still felt as if he hadn't slept at all, and couldn't rid himself of the images from his dream. The first two had been bad enough, but this was a thousand times worse. He saw Porthos bleeding out in his arms every time he closed his eyes, and it left him feeling shattered.

Something Constance had said the day before kept coming back to haunt him. He'd previously discounted the idea that what he was experiencing was in any way a premonition, but now that Porthos was involved he felt he didn't dare ignore it. What if this was something that had happened before, and he had to stop it happening again? What if even now Porthos was in some kind of danger?

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Athos headed for the cafe. Porthos would have left for work by now so it was no good going to the flat. He didn't know where Porthos worked, but it couldn't be far away from the meeting place he'd chosen after a hard day, and Athos hoped that whatever was making this happen might somehow lead him in the right direction.

The cafe was buzzing with the morning coffee trade, and he could see d'Artagnan behind the counter, but there was no sign of Porthos. He wandered on, knowing it was probably hopeless but needing to try.

A couple of blocks away, he was passing a construction site when from somewhere within the edifice of scaffolding and hoarding a voice yelled "Oi, du Vallon! Thought you said the delivery had arrived?"

Athos froze, and sure enough a second later it was unmistakeably Porthos' voice that yelled a reply. 

"It has! It's in the container."

"No it isn't!"

"It's in the one on the left. D'you look in both?" 

The rather more unenthusiastic reply to this suggested Porthos' unseen interrogator hadn't, and was feeling correspondingly resentful about it. Athos scanned the wooden platforms eagerly in the direction the conversation had come from, and was finally rewarded when he caught sight of Porthos up at first floor level, clad in hard hat and hi vis, scowling at a crumpled bundle of plans in his gloved hand.

Athos would have been content with just this glimpse of him, to know that he was well and unharmed, had had no real intention of making contact, however hard it was to drag himself away from the sight of him. But whether it was due to the same uncanny connection that had drawn Athos to this spot in the first place, or just sheer unfortunate coincidence, Porthos chose that moment to glance down at the street and look directly at Athos.

Even so far away Athos could tell the moment Porthos recognised him, the way he tensed and stared in disbelief. He would have turned and left, face already burning with embarrassment, but Porthos unfroze first, muttering something inaudible to the man he was standing with and disappearing abruptly from sight.

Athos sensed he was coming down, and fought the urge to run away. He'd done nothing wrong, had every right to be standing on this particular piece of pavement. Still, his stomach was a mess of knots as Porthos reappeared from a gate in the compound and crossed the street towards him.

"Athos. What the bloody hell are you doing here?" To Athos' relief he sounded puzzled rather than angry.

"I was just passing," Athos said lamely, and Porthos snorted. 

"Pull the other one. How the hell did you find out where I worked?"

"I didn't!" Athos shook his head indignantly. "I was honestly just passing. And I heard someone call your name and I looked up, that's all."

Porthos was staring at him with a strange look on his face and it took Athos a second to realise what he'd said wrong.

"I don't remember telling you my surname," Porthos said quietly.

"I - I - " Athos stuttered, then sighed, figuring he might as well be hung for the truth as a lie. "I saw your driver's licence. That first night, I was worried I was going to get your name wrong, so I looked in your wallet."

"What? _You_ took my wallet?" Porthos demanded. "It was you all along? So - what, you took it out so you'd have a reason to see me again? That's - fucked up man."

"No - no," Athos protested. "I put it back. It's not my fault if you were too stupid to pick it up," he added, stung at being accused of something he hadn't actually done. Porthos just looked at him and Athos winced. "That - wasn't meant to come out like that," he muttered.

"Oh, was it not?" Porthos folded his arms looking exasperated.

Athos sighed. "Can we start again?"

"Alright. How about you start with telling me what you're doing here then. Because right now the word that springs to mind is stalking."

Athos looked pained. "I just wanted to see you. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

"Why wouldn't I be?" 

"I had - a dream," Athos admitted, knowing it was the wrong thing to say but unable to stop the words coming out.

Sure enough, the look on Porthos' face was close to disgust. "Oh, you had a dream. Let me guess, another of your video nasties? I got the starring role this time did I? Lucky old me. So what did I get? Shot? Hung? Trampled?" He spread his arms in a gesture at the same time both demanding and helpless.

"Stabbed," said Athos in a small voice. "I couldn't stop seeing it. Your blood was all over my hands. I had to _know_ \- " he stopped, realising far too late how it sounded, particularly in the wake of Porthos' accusation of stalking.

Porthos jabbed a finger at him that trembled slightly with anger. "You stay away from me, you _creepy_ fuck." He turned and marched stiffly away, and Athos watched him go through a sudden blur of tears.

\--

Somehow Athos made his way back to the cafe, hardly aware of where he was or what he was doing. The early rush had thinned out, and it was with a certain sense of sanctuary gained that he stumbled in through the door and collapsed into a seat in the corner.

D'Artagnan materialised from a nearby table, order pad poised and looking concerned. "Are you alright?" 

Athos took a shuddering breath, trying to straighten out his thoughts. He felt like he hadn't slept for days, regardless of the hours he'd actually spent asleep, and Porthos' brusque dismissal had almost been the last straw.

"I will be." He managed a nod and a watery smile. "Could I just have a black coffee please?" 

What he really needed was a proper drink, but perhaps the hot, strong bitterness of the coffee would at least shore him up enough to get home.

D'Artagnan disappeared again and Athos was left alone with his thoughts. He felt the threat of tears pressing at the back of his eyes and buried his head in his hands, breathing slowly with the effort of not breaking down completely.

The sound of a chair scraping out in front of him made him look up, spots dancing briefly in front of his eyes from the pressure of his hands.

D'Artagnan was now sitting in the seat opposite, and slid a cup of coffee and a plate holding a large slice of black forest gateau towards him.

"I - I didn't order - " Athos protested, trying to unobtrusively rub tear tracks away with his wrist.

"You looked like you needed it," d'Artagnan told him firmly. "And I made it myself, so it'd be rude to refuse." He nudged the plate closer. "On the house."

Athos half-smiled in grateful bemusement at his concern. 

"You keep giving things away, you're going to get fired," he chided softly. D'Artagnan laughed.

"Nah. My uncle owns the place. He fires me, he does himself out of some cheap labour." He sat back in the chair and watched Athos take a sip of his coffee. "Where's your friend today?"

"Which one?"

D'Artagnan grinned. "The hot one."

Athos gave a pained laugh. "I don't think he's my friend anymore. So if you're interested, knock yourself out."

D'Artagnan snorted. "I hardly think he'd be interested in me. I was trying to catch his attention the other day, and he barely took his eyes off you the whole time."

Athos looked surprised, then rather sad. "I've screwed up since then," he admitted.

"You fell out?" D'Artagnan put his head on one side. "What happened?"

Athos fiddled with his cup. "I keep having nightmares. Guess I should have kept the content to myself," he sighed.

"Well he can hardly hold a bunch of lousy dreams against you," D'Artagnan said indignantly. He took in Athos' miserable expression and pursed his lips. "Come on, dreams are stupid. I mean, I dreamed I was a dog once. Which was okay until I woke up."

"Why, what happened then?" Athos asked obligingly.

"Woke up trying to lick my own balls."

Athos burst out laughing, surprising himself by descending into helpless giggles. D'Artagnan looked at him, pleased with the result. "Alright, I might have made that bit up," he confessed. He got to his feet and Athos smiled up at him. 

D'Artagnan smiled back. "You know, you've got a really nice smile. You should use it more often."

"I'll bear that in mind. And - thank you," Athos said seriously. "For - for caring."

D'Artagnan hesitated, as if weighing up whether to tell him something. "Do you ever feel like you've know someone your whole life? Even when you've only just met them? Does that sound weird?"

Athos looked at him. "Not at all. And yes, I happen to know exactly what you mean."

D'Artagnan nodded. "I'd better get back to work." He gestured at the gateau. "Get that down you. Guaranteed to make you feel better. When in doubt, cake fixes everything."

\--

When Athos left the cafe he was in lighter spirits, but by the time he'd reached home again and let himself into the empty flat, he was assailed by a sense of bone-weary loneliness. 

For years he had been entirely content with his own company, seeking partners only for brief and often anonymous hook-ups. He'd shied away from the threat of any emotional connection, and mostly imagined himself happy enough. 

Athos sank down onto the sofa wondering how the hell a man he'd known for a matter of days could be having such an impact on him. He'd always scoffed at the idea of love at first sight, and even now didn't know if that was what it was. All he knew was that he missed Porthos' presence like an ache, and the thought that he might never see him again left him sick to his stomach.

He got up again and poured himself a glass of wine. It wasn't quite yet midday, but he figured it was close enough to lunchtime to be allowable. It wasn't like he was breakfasting on a bottle of vodka, right? His stomach growled, reminding him that all he'd eaten today was the cake d'Artagnan had pressed upon him.

Thinking of d'Artagnan summoned a faint smile to his lips. The boy's unconditional and open friendliness had been like a tonic after the dark effects of his dreams and subsequent encounter.

Athos ate a handful of biscuits, too lethargic to cook or to go out again. He settled back on the couch with a second glass of wine, trying to ignore the way his hand shook as he raised it to his lips. It was just that he was so tired, he thought. If only he could get a good night's sleep he'd be fine again. Sleep without dreams. Was that too much to ask for?

\--

The water was black, with an oily sheen to the surface that reflected the skeletal trees along the bank. Athos shivered as he realised where he was, his eyes turning instinctively to the spot he knew d'Artagnan's body would be lying.

The muddy grass was empty though, and Athos' heart caught in his throat as a figure walked out of the trees.

"D'Artagnan!" He was still alive. Did this mean Athos could warn him could somehow prevent what was surely about to happen?

"You weren't there." D'Artagnan's tone was cold, his words echoing those of Porthos.

"What do you mean?" Athos pleaded. "What happened, what am I supposed to have done? Tell me how to stop this!"

D'Artagnan just stared at him, face hard and devoid of compassion. "You can't. It's too late."

"How can it be too late, you're here, you're talking to me," Athos said, the words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. But even as he watched, a thin line of red appeared circling d'Artagnan's throat and he took a step back. 

"No. _No_." Athos stared as the line became a flood, blood pouring down d'Artagnan's chest, soaking his shirt. All the time, heedless of what was happening, d'Artagnan stared at him accusingly.

"We'd have followed you. But you know what we're like. We all had different ideas, we all rushed off convinced our way was best. If you'd been here we'd have listened to you. You'd have held us together. But you weren't. Where were you Athos? Lying drunk somewhere. You failed us."

"No." It came out as a croak. "Give me a chance. Let me fix this."

"You can't even fix yourself."

\--

Athos jerked awake, gasping for breath and confused to find himself on the sofa. His flailing hand caught something that gave under the pressure and he looked down to find he'd knocked his wine glass over. A dark crimson stain was spreading ominously over the cream carpet and he made a noise that was almost a wail.

He snatched up a roll of paper towels from the kitchen and fell to his knees, mopping up the wine with sobbing breaths of desperation. When the liquid was gone the stain remained, and he scrubbed frantically at it with whatever detergents he could find under the sink, until his hands were raw from the chemicals and his lungs were burning.

\--

The afternoon and evening passed in a blur. Athos finished off one bottle then two, making inroads into a third, slumped on the floor with his back against the cushions of the sofa. He tried to read, and then to watch tv, but his mind wouldn't settle, sliding back to the images of his dreams, the accusing face of d'Artagnan blurring together confusingly with his smiles of the morning. 

Limbs heavy and his vision starting to blur, Athos crawled finally into bed, hoping he'd done enough to pass out in black oblivion. 

Despite this, almost as soon as his eyes closed, he found himself in the middle of a dream. Somehow too, he knew he was dreaming, and made an ineffectual attempt at waking himself up. His foot stamped the ground with no weight or substance to it, and his hand refused to make contact with his cheek.

Resigned to whatever horrors lay in wait, Athos looked about him. This time the surroundings were different, he seemed to be in a courtyard of some kind, enclosed by a range of buildings. Not far distant a lone figure sat at a wooden trestle table, and Athos recognised Aramis.

Slowly, he walked over to sit opposite him, and Aramis nodded in greeting.

"Where are we?" Athos asked. " _When_ are we?"

Aramis shrugged, and Athos somehow wasn't surprised as a red stain began to blossom and spread across his linen shirt, to which Aramis paid no attention.

"You don't seem angry," Athos said curiously. "The others - they say I let them down and they hate me for it. Why don't you?" 

Aramis looked at him and half-smiled. "It was only a matter of time before one of us got everybody killed," he said reflectively. "I came close enough myself on occasion and you never held it against me. So why should I blame you now?"

"Does it have to happen this way?" Athos asked, eyes fixed with a horrified fascination on the creeping red stain that was now starting to drip on the bench. 

Aramis appeared to consider. "Anything's possible, if the Lord wills it," he said reflectively. "I'm talking to you, aren't I?" He gave a quiet laugh. "I must say, if this is heaven, it's not quite what I expected."

"Tell me what to do," Athos begged. "You're the only one who'll talk to me."

"I can't tell you what I don't know." Aramis looked apologetic. "I can promise you something though." 

"Yes?" Athos demanded eagerly, but Aramis and the surroundings were starting to fade away, and he tried desperately to stay with him, to hold the moment in his mind.

"The others. They might be angry, but they don't hate you Athos. They couldn't if they tried."

With the memory of Aramis' sudden smile gradually fading like a Cheshire cat, Athos woke to the morning light streaming in through the curtains he'd failed to close, and found his face was wet with tears.

\--

Feeling rather like he'd been hit by the hangover truck, Athos struggled into the bathroom and dry-heaved into the toilet for a while before sticking his head under the shower, suffering a full blast of freezing cold water for as long as he could stand it. Afterwards his ears were numb and his hair and beard were dripping chilly drops down his chest, but at least he could focus.

Realising that he should probably eat something more wholesome than the remaining half pack of biscuits, Athos changed his clothes and stumbled out of the flat. The trip across the city involved two bus rides, and should have been simple enough except he had to keep jumping off because he thought he was going to throw up. Consequently by the time he reached the cafe it was thronged with the lunch crowd, and he thought for a minute he wouldn't get a table.

Luckily a couple were just leaving and he sagged onto the still warm seat with both a sense of relief and a wrinkled nose of distaste.

It had occurred to him that there were cafes a lot closer to his flat, but he'd had it obstinately in mind that he needed to come here. Having spent half his life avoiding company, suddenly he needed to be around people, and was pathetically hopeful of at least a smile from d’Artagnan. 

The treacherous thought at the back of his mind that there was a slim chance Porthos might come in, he refused to examine, although every time the door opened on another complete stranger he couldn't help the small spikes of disappointment.

D'Artagnan bustled over to clear away the empty plates of the table's previous occupants, and grinned at him. "Hello you. I feel like I should be able to say 'the usual?', but every time you've come in you've ordered something different. If you're trying to confuse me you're doing a good job."

"In that case - can I have a hot chocolate?" Athos asked, feeling that something filling to line his stomach would be wise. "And some sort of sandwich." He peered at the menu, belatedly realising he should have looked before.

"Chicken salad?" d’Artagnan suggested, and Athos nodded gratefully. 

"Yes, alright. Thank you."

D’Artagnan gave him a knowing smirk, but it was only after he'd gone that Athos realised he'd just ordered exactly what Porthos had had the first time they were there.

Despite the busyness of the place, his meal was delivered fairly swiftly and Athos suspected d’Artagnan had served him ahead of several other tables. He still felt vaguely nauseous and was glad he hadn't ordered hot food. The first few bites of sandwich were forced down between sips from the bottle of water which, unasked, d’Artagnan had left on the table with his meal. 

As his appetite gradually returned Athos started to feel a little better, and managed to finish the plateful without needing to make a hasty dash for the loo. He was sitting nursing his hot chocolate, letting the buzz of conversation and clattering crockery wash over him when he became aware of someone hovering next to the table.

A glance around suggested all the other tables were taken, and the spare seat across from him was the only free space in the place.

"Do you mind if I - oh." 

Athos looked up properly and realised with a jolt that the man standing over him was Aramis.

Aramis looked awkward, clearly not having recognised Athos either until he looked up.

"Please. Be my guest." Athos waved at the empty chair and after a moment's hesitation Aramis sat down.

"Thank you."

"No problem." 

They looked at each other a little warily. Athos dredged up a smile, and Aramis smiled back with the fixed look of a man desperately trying to think of something to say. 

The tension was broken as d’Artagnan bustled past and deposited a filled roll and a bag of crisps in front of Aramis, before hurrying on past.

"Regular huh?" Athos murmured, trying to at least contribute to the non-existent conversation and fairly sure he hadn't seen Aramis place an order.

"When I'm on days." Aramis looked grateful to Athos breaking the ice, and visibly relaxed with a quiet laugh. "They like you to just get your sleeping routine adjusted then promptly change your shift pattern." 

"Where do you work?" 

"Emergency department." Aramis bit into his roll with the enthusiasm of a man who'd been on his feet for hours. "I'm a nurse," he added indistinctly, mouth full.

"Oh." Athos nodded, looking interested. He considered this information, and a question occurred to him. "Can I ask you something?"

Aramis looked guarded, assuming it was going to be about Porthos, but nodded.

"How do you treat a stab wound?"

Aramis froze, roll halfway to his mouth, and lowered it slowly back to his plate with a dry laugh.

"You know, I'd been wondering whether to mention the fact that Porthos has spent the past couple of days mooning about and staring into space and sighing a lot. I'd been debating whether to suggest you call him. But he's right. You are a fucking weirdo."

Athos stared at him. "Porthos - misses me?" He blinked. "But he told me to stay away from him!"

Aramis shrugged and picked up his lunch again. "And seems extremely put out that you appear to have taken him at his word."

Athos gaped at him. "Are you saying - me _not_ stalking him - has hurt his feelings?" he asked incredulously. 

"Fragile thing, the male ego." Aramis grinned, and opened his crisps. 

"So - _do_ you think I should call him?" Athos asked.

"No, as his best friend I think you should stay the fuck away from him," Aramis retorted. "But I also feel a duty to admit that Porthos might not see things in quite the same fashion." He sighed. "Look, leave it a few days at least? Let him sort his head out. And you look like you need to sleep for a week."

"I am sleeping," Athos protested. "I just never feel rested when I wake up. It's like I'm spending half the night running around the place."

Aramis studied him critically and seemed to come to a decision. "Pressure," he said finally, and it took Athos a second to realise he was answering his earlier question, not giving him a diagnosis. "Keep pressure on the wound, it's the best thing you can do, until it can be treated. If the weapon's still in there, leave it in, it'll reduce the blood loss. Remove enough clothes to find the wound site, and use something clean to press against it. Strap it on if you can. If it's in a limb, try and keep the wound higher than the heart. If it's in the chest, leave one side of the dressing open so you don't trap air in the chest cavity, it'll affect the lungs. And keep them warm, check for shock." 

He finished his roll and pushed the plate away. "Athos. Promise me you're not going to stab someone?" Aramis asked in an undertone. 

Athos looked indignant. "Why do people keep assuming I'm a psychopath?"

Aramis tilted his head. "Well, you're not exactly doing yourself any favours," he pointed out. He looked at his watch and stood up, pushing the rest of his crisps towards Athos.

"Seriously. Take a long hard look at yourself Athos. And think twice before you make any calls to Porthos." He went over to the counter to pay, and walked out without giving Athos another look.

Athos made his way to the gents, and when he'd relieved himself he washed his hands and splashed water on his face. Staring into the mirror, he had to admit Aramis had a point. Bloodshot eyes, unkempt beard, pale skin. Not exactly a catch. He sighed. Maybe they both had a point. Porthos had called him out on his drinking, and now he came to think about it, so had d'Artagnan in his dream. Maybe cutting back a little couldn't hurt. 

Heartened by the thought that maybe he hadn't totally screwed things up with Porthos, Athos walked out into the sunshine with a fresh resolve. If he wanted to win back the right to see him, he had to figure out whatever was going on in his head. If it was just in his head. 

_You can't even fix yourself_ , d'Artagnan had said in his dream. Perhaps the first step to sorting this all out was proving him wrong.

Athos walked home from the cafe. It took him two and a half hours and by the time he reached the flat he had blisters on both feet and legs like jelly, but also a satisfying sense of achievement. With the sun on his face and fresh air - or at least as fresh as the city ever got - in his lungs, he'd found a peace in the progress of his slow, steady footsteps and the tiredness he experienced now felt well earned.

He hoped he'd worn himself out enough to sleep properly. It was tempting to sink down on the bed and try and sleep now, but first he made himself go out again, to stock up on fresh food.

Athos hesitated in the wine aisle, then made himself move on. His basket felt empty without at least one bottle in it, but he was determined to turn a corner and carried his groceries home proudly. He even managed to cook himself a meal without pouring himself a glass of anything, although the reflex urge to do so almost unseated him and the bottle was in his hand before he realised what he was doing.

Athos put it back firmly. He wasn't so weak as all that he told himself, that he was going to crack in under a day. He didn't need it that badly.

By the evening the craving wasn't nearly so funny or easily dismissed, and he was doubly assaulted by the need for a cigarette. In need of a distraction he called Constance, who chatted amiably enough for a while, but turned out to be out of town on a fashion shoot for her latest collection, and couldn't talk long.

She asked how he was and he told her he was fine, crossing his fingers childishly, then clenching an abrupt fist when he noticed how they were shaking.

It was early by his standards, when Athos went to bed. He hoped to escape the nagging need for a drink, and the growing headache that seemed to be forming, and he hoped that he was exhausted enough not to dream. 

It was a vain hope, and Athos was soon drifting in and out of a seemingly endless series of scenes that all somehow skewed one into the other with confusing dream-logic. 

Sometimes he was running, feeling that Porthos was just ahead of him and if he could only catch him up that things would be okay. Branches whipped into his face and the ground was uneven beneath his feet, and just as he caught a glimpse of blue cloak ahead through the trees he started awake, chest heaving and body covered in cold sweat.

He lay there for a while, staring up through the darkness at the ceiling, and passed back into sleep without even realising it. It was only when he felt something moving beside him and tried to sit up that he realised he wasn't lying on his bed but a mortuary slab. He turned his head towards the noise, dreading what manner of revenant he would see, but again woke up panting before the dream had ended.

Athos rolled into a ball, shaking. He felt like his chest was being crushed in a vice, and reached out to sip from the glass of water he'd taken to bed, slopping half of it over the sheets in the process. He rolled to the other side of the bed, shivering. 

"Cold, isn't it?" 

Athos looked up, startled. He was back on the river bank, and d'Artagnan was leaning back against a tree, blowing on his fingers. Athos eyed his throat suspiciously, but there was no sign of blood. 

"Where are the others?" 

D'Artagnan shrugged. "They went off somewhere. You know what they're like." He grinned. "You made it then. We thought you'd given us up in favour of Lord Bacchus."

Athos stared at him, trying to comprehend his words. "Are you saying - it hasn't happened yet?"

"What hasn't?" D'Artagnan straightened up, and at that moment a man Athos didn’t recognise stepped out from behind the tree and in a movement that Athos' eyes refused to fully take in, seized d’Artagnan by the hair and yanked his head back, slitting his throat in one viciously efficient motion.

\--

Athos half fell out of bed in his haste and barely made it to the toilet in time before throwing up everything he'd eaten. 

For half an hour he lay curled miserably on the bathroom floor, then stumbled into the living room, poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, and drank it straight down.

\--

The next two days were a living hell. Unable to sleep without plunging into exhausting dreams, Athos seemed to spend his time desperately trying to round up more than one of his companions at a time, sensing that somehow that was where the problem lay, and that there would be strength in numbers. 

He watched all three of them die, over and over again, until he felt like he was so steeped in blood himself he would never be clean.

Occasionally the dreams would start early enough that he felt in with a chance of influencing the outcome, but those always ended frustratingly and without resolution.

At other times Aramis or d’Artagnan would show up, blithely ignoring their mortal wounds, and either harangue him for his failings or suggest he try praying for guidance, depending on who it was.

For some reason Porthos never appeared in this manner, and Athos found himself wishing he would. Even in death, it seemed, Porthos was determined to avoid him.

On the afternoon of the third day Athos was staring blearily into the mirror wondering where it had all gone wrong when he saw in the reflection Aramis leaning against the wall of his living room, picking at his fingernails with a dagger.

He spun round, but the room was empty. 

Five minutes later Athos had left the flat. He wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or haunted, but one thing was for certain, he couldn't stand to be alone a moment longer.

\--

Worn out from a long day's work and preoccupied with more things than were comfortable, Porthos was paying little attention to his surroundings when he wandered into the cafe in search of something to warm his chilled fingers and tide him over until he could get some supper.

"Could I get a hot chocolate to take away please?"

"Sure you wouldn't rather drink it in here?" d'Artagnan suggested, and Porthos looked up in confusion. D'Artagnan inclined his head to the side and Porthos followed the angle of his gaze. In the corner of the cafe, Athos was slumped on a couch, head lolling to one side and apparently asleep.

"What's _he_ doing here?" Porthos muttered sulkily, experiencing a sudden unsettling rush of conflicting feelings.

"Trying to sleep, I think," d'Artagnan told him cheerfully. "Although he keeps jerking himself awake. I think he's having nightmares," he added, in a certain spirit of devilment.

"You don't say." Porthos folded his arms and refused to look. After a moment d'Artagnan placed his drink in front of him, in a takeaway cup as requested, and Porthos sighed. It represented a decision and an uncomfortable one. Take his hot chocolate and go - Athos, after all, was asleep, or at least had his eyes closed and was unaware of his presence. He could walk out without undue pressure, and it was probably the most sensible thing to do, all things considered. 

Or he could stay. 

He finally snuck another reluctant look over at Athos, who was frowning in his sleep, head twisting a little where it rested against the back of the sofa.

Porthos growled a wordless, helpless noise of exasperation, and picking up his drink made his way across to him, ignoring d'Artagnan's smirk of satisfaction.

As he drew closer he could see Athos was genuinely asleep, although not peacefully. There was a furrow between his eyes and his lip was curled in apparent distress. Porthos noticed the occupants of nearby tables giving Athos pointed looks, and felt a unexpected spike of protectiveness towards him. 

Porthos sat down carefully, wondering if it was wise to wake him. Athos was by now wrenching his head to and fro in the grip of some unseen torment, and Porthos made up his mind, reaching out and touching his arm.

Athos woke with a violent start, chest heaving and staring at Porthos in unseeing terror. He looked so genuinely scared that Porthos reached out for him instinctively.

"Hey. It's alright. Athos. It's okay, it's okay. You're safe." 

Athos, disoriented and shaking, let Porthos fold him into his arms and collapsed against his chest in total surrender. Porthos, noticing the looks from the surrounding customers get more disapproving, hugged him tighter on principle.

"It's alright," he murmured, rocking Athos comfortingly. "It was just a dream."

Eventually Athos pulled back, looking shamefaced and haggard. 

"I'm sorry," he said in a low, wrecked voice. "What must you think of me."

Porthos eyed him critically. Athos looked like he hadn't slept properly in days, he needed a shave, and from the faint smell of stale sweat he needed a shower as well. The overall effect should have been enough to make Porthos walk out then and there, but there was something that kept him in his seat. 

"Who copped it this time then?" he enquired, morbidly wondering if Athos had been dreaming about him again. 

Athos met his eyes with a look of faint trauma. "Me," he said simply.

"Oh Athos." Porthos shook his head helplessly, and pulled him close again. For a while they just sat there, and when Athos pulled back this time he had a little more colour in his cheeks, as if Porthos' mere presence had somehow lent him strength.

As Athos took a steadying breath, Porthos studied him, thumbing an unheeded tear gently away from Athos' cheek as he tried to gauge Athos' condition.

"Athos. Are you on drugs?" he asked quietly. 

"No!" Athos looked hurt. "Well, only alcohol. And I did try to stop that, after what you said." He looked miserable, and Porthos frowned.

"What - you tried to stop dead? Cold turkey? On your own with no support?" He sighed. "Guessing that didn't go well?"

Athos shook his head, pouting a little.

"Athos. For God's sake. You need to see a doctor. Or - a shrink, or _something_. You need help," Porthos insisted quietly.

"I'm not crazy" Athos protested. "I just need to sleep."

Porthos took Athos' hands in his and looked at him. "Crazy's a big word," he said gently. "I'm just saying maybe there's - stuff in there you need to work through. No-one's suggesting you need to be locked up. Just that you should talk to someone."

"I tried," Athos said, with a faintly resentful look in Porthos' direction. He groaned.

"Alright. Come on." He took Athos' arm and helped him to his feet. "You stay here much longer, someone's going to report you for being drunk and disorderly. You're making the place look untidy."

"Where are we going?" Athos asked, meekly letting himself be led out of the door. "I don’t want to go to a doctor," he protested weakly. 

"I'm not taking you to a doctor," Porthos laughed. "I'm just taking you home, okay?"

Athos stopped in his tracks, and Porthos looked up at the unexpected resistance. "What?"

"I don’t want to be on my own," Athos confessed after a second, face burning with shame.

Porthos looked at him for a long moment then sighed heavily. "Alright. Come on then."

"Where?"

"You can come home with me." Porthos shepherded him along, faintly worried by how pliant Athos was now under his direction.

They arrived back at Porthos' flat, and Athos didn't protest as he steered him right through to the bedroom.

"Right. Coat off. Shoes off. That's it." Porthos pulled back the duvet and nodded at the bed. "In you get."

Athos did as he was told, hardly knowing what was happening or what Porthos intended. By this stage he'd have gone along with anything, and was surprised when Porthos merely pulled the covers up over him and sat down in the chair next to the bed.

"Get some rest," Porthos told him gently. "That's an order. You're safe, okay? And I'm right here. I won't leave, I promise." He stroked a hand over Athos' hair and smiled down at him sympathetically. "Try to sleep." 

He watched Athos' eyelids drooping almost immediately, and realised with a pang of worry that he really was on the edge of utter exhaustion. 

Porthos sat there and watched until Athos was fast asleep, then leaned over and laid a light kiss on his forehead.

\--

When Athos woke it was dark outside and the curtains had been drawn. The room too was in darkness, but the door stood wide open and warm light spilled in from the hallway. He climbed carefully out of the bed and wandered out into the flat.

He found Porthos in the kitchen, sitting at the table with his chin resting on his hand and frowning over an array of books and papers and notepads. Athos stood in the doorway and watched him for a while before Porthos turned and noticed him.

"Athos!" He got to his feet. "How are you feeling? Did you sleep okay?"

Athos nodded. "A little better, I think. And yes, thank you. No dreams." He realised with surprise as he said it that it was true, and the flood of relief almost buckled him at the knees.

"Can I get you anything? Cup of tea?"

"Thank you. That would be nice." Athos came further in and looked down at the papers spread across the table as Porthos filled the kettle. "What are you studying?"

"Oh. Just a course I'm doing. Trying to - improve my chances, you know? Don't want to be stuck being a foreman all my life. Exams are next week."

"That's good," Athos nodded. "Good luck, then. I'm sure you'll do well."

Porthos shot him a defensive look, ready to find any trace of condescension in Athos' words or expression. Athos, with his educated voice and his independent means and his conspicuous lack of anything approaching an actual job. Porthos, bristling, was ready to take offence at any discernable sense he was being patronised, but Athos just smiled at him with a genuine look of pride and encouragement. 

He nodded, grudgingly. It occurred to him then, that for all his supposed advantages in life, Athos was the one who currently looked tired and ill and defenceless, and Porthos relented slightly, smiling back.

"So." Porthos hesitated. "Did you want to talk about it?"

"About what?" It was Athos' turn to look wary.

"Well. Whatever's going on. You know. Up there." He touched a gentle finger to Athos' temple.

Athos looked away. "You don't want to hear about all that."

"I do." Porthos bit his lip. "Look, if you can trust me enough to tell me, then the least I can do is listen, right? Maybe it'll help. Maybe it won't, but I don't think it'll hurt. Talk to me Athos."

"Alright." Athos pushed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, mustering his scattered thoughts. "There are these four men. Musketeers, I think. As far as I can work out. They're - us. Or we're them. Or something."

"You and me?" Porthos asked, not looking up from making the tea.

"Yes. And d'Artagnan, from the cafe. And - and Aramis."

Porthos nodded for him to continue. "Any others?"

"No. I mean, yes, there are others in the dreams, sometimes, but I've never seen them in - in this life."

"You think it's a reincarnation thing then?" Porthos murmured, handing him a mug.

"I don't know." Athos sighed. "I wish I did. It feels - more complicated than that." He looked up. "They - we - all died. And it was my fault."

"How can something that happened hundreds of years ago be your fault?" Porthos asked gently. 

"Me then, then." Athos frowned. "But it feels like - it was wrong, somehow. It shouldn't have happened. That I should be able to put it right."

"And can you?"

"I wish I knew." Athos sighed, then looked up at him again incredulously. "Do you _believe_ me?"

Porthos hesitated, looking for the words that wouldn't upset him. "I believe it's real to you," he said carefully, not missing the way Athos' shoulders slumped a little. "And who's to say if you figure things out in your head that that's not the way to solve things?" He laid a hand on Athos' arm and only then realised how close they were standing. 

"I don't think you're crazy," Porthos promised in a low voice. "I just think you need to work some things through. And if this is the form it's taking, then so be it. Who am I to say it's not real?" 

His hand had moved to Athos' shoulder, and Porthos traced a fingertip down the side of his neck. This close, he was suddenly remembering how it had felt to make love to him, how Athos had felt in his arms, the way they'd delighted in kissing each other, before it all went wrong.

Athos was looking up at him, not speaking, but his eyes were moving of their own accord to Porthos' lips, and Porthos couldn't help doing the same. He'd felt Athos shiver under the touch of his hand, and before he'd thought about what he was doing he'd captured Athos' mouth in a deep and passionate kiss. 

Athos yielded before him, making a tiny noise of surprise before kissing him back with equal heat.

Afterwards Porthos drew back, ashamed of himself. To bring Athos here, promise him safety, and then make a move on him was unforgivable. 

"I shouldn't have done that," he stammered. "I'm sorry."

Athos half-smiled, and somehow there was a degree more confidence in his eyes than a moment ago.

"Porthos?" he whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Do it again?"

There was a beat where they just looked at each other, and then something seemed to snap. Suddenly they were kissing each other harder than they'd ever done before, and Porthos slammed Athos back against the worktop, hands in his hair, pinning him in place. Athos could already feel the swell of his erection through their jeans, grinding against his own rapidly rising cock.

They kissed, hard and desperate, Athos making whimpering noises in his throat out of sheer need. They stumbled through to the bedroom, tearing at each other's clothes as they went, kicking off jeans and pants and falling into bed, still clutching each other.

Porthos scrabbled frantically in the drawer for a condom, barely taking the time to lube up before he was thrusting into Athos' body. Athos threw his head back, groaning out loud from the feeling of being taken so hard and so uncompromisingly. He clung to Porthos, arms round his neck, urging him on, and Porthos obliged, slamming into him with a force that shook the bed. 

There was something animal about it, as if neither were entirely in control of themselves, and Porthos felt a hot flush of guilt at the knowledge there was more than a shade of anger in the way he was fucking him. Athos took everything he was given and yet he was no passive partner, sucking hot bruises onto Porthos' neck and wrapping every limb tightly around him in possessive, demanding encouragement.

It was Athos who came first, a sudden flood of semen spilling over his belly, too far gone to even groan. Porthos came seconds later, shuddering with it, feeling like his head was filled with white noise, the intensity of his orgasm filling him with prickling fire from head to foot.

Porthos pulled out and rolled over, struggling for breath and struck with an abrupt sense of crippling shame. He sat up and peeled off the condom, wrapping it in a tissue and dropping it in the bin before grabbing more tissues and turning back to Athos, half-expecting to find him lying in a stupor. To his relief Athos took them from him and cleaned himself up without help.

Porthos settled them both under the duvet and took Athos back into his arms. "You okay?" he murmured.

"Mmmn." Athos kissed him, and Porthos hugged him close, feeling a little of the tension in his shoulders ease. 

"Thank you," Athos said. "For taking my mind off things."

"Not my finest hour," Porthos sighed, still feeling guilty.

"Oh, I don't know." There was a glint in Athos' eye that hadn't been there before, and Porthos was reminded suddenly of the way he'd been when they first met, self-possessed and dryly amusing.

"Yeah, well. Taking advantage of someone who's currently a bit mentally vulnerable. That's got to be one off me bucket list right there, eh?"

Athos laughed quietly and kissed him on the shoulder. "I won't hold it against you. Well, not unless you ask nicely."

Porthos shook his head, at himself more than Athos. "I just can't keep my hands off you."

"I'm not complaining." Athos kissed him again, on the lips, in a slow, tender contrast to their earlier desperate fucking.

Afterwards, Porthos came to a decision. "Alright." 

"Alright?" Athos looked questioning.

"If we're going to do this?" Porthos held his gaze seriously. "You need to promise me something."

"If I can."

"That you'll see someone. An expert. I'll help you Athos, as far as I can, with whatever you need - the head stuff, the drink - but I'm a builder, not a psychologist. Promise me you'll get help on this. That's all I ask. Just talk to someone who knows more about it."

Athos nodded slowly. "Very well."

Porthos nodded back, relieved, and hugged him. "Will you be alright to go to sleep?"

"Yes." Athos nestled down against him comfortably. "I'm with you."

\--

The next morning Porthos opened his eyes to find he was alone in the bed. Frowning, he got up and pulled on a bathrobe, noting that the trail of clothes on the floor were all his, and Athos' had gone. A noise from the other room drew his attention, and he wondered if Athos had got up to make tea.

Walking into the kitchen though, the figure standing at the counter with a bowl of cereal was Aramis. 

"Good morning."

"Oh. It's you."

Aramis laughed. "Expecting someone else?"

"Athos," Porthos sighed. 

"Oh. He was here?" Aramis took in the fact that Porthos was clearly naked under his robe, and raised an eyebrow. "I take it he stayed the night?"

"Yeah." Porthos tied the dressing gown tighter around himself and sat down at the table, half-heartedly piling up the scatter of books.

"Was that wise?" Aramis asked, neutrally.

"Probably not." 

"How is he?"

Porthos considered. "I think he's getting worse," he admitted. "But he's going to get help," he added quickly. "He promised."

"Uh huh. This was before he walked out on you without telling you he was leaving, presumably?"

Porthos groaned, looking up at Aramis helplessly. 

"I think I'm in love with him."

"You've only known him, what, a week? Do you love him, or do you just feel sorry for him?" Aramis asked quietly. 

Porthos looked miserable, and Aramis patted him on the shoulder. "Look, I'm not going to tell you not to get involved, it's none of my business. Just - be careful, okay? Go into it with your eyes open. From what I've seen, and what you've said, he could well be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Possibly even borderline schizophrenia. He's almost certainly alcoholic. You could be taking on a lot. I just don't want to see you get hurt."

Porthos nodded, sighing. "What do you think I should do?"

"You're asking me?" Aramis laughed. "The man with the highest number of disastrous love affairs on the planet?"

"Maybe that’s why I'm asking. The voice of experience." Porthos smiled and got up, switching on the kettle. The two mugs of half-drunk tea from the night before still sat on the counter, and he poured them into the sink.

Aramis considered. "Go with your heart," he said finally. "It might still all end in disaster, but you'll regret it less."

"Do you like him?" Porthos asked suddenly.

"I've only met him twice," Aramis pointed out. "But - yes, actually. There's something about him."

"D'Artagnan likes him," Porthos said thoughtfully. "In the cafe. That boy could pick an argument with a nun, he's that hot-headed. But he seems to have taken a shine to Athos."

Aramis looked wistful. "I wouldn't mind d'Artagnan taking a shine to me," he grinned. 

Porthos laughed. "His uncle'd be after you with a shotgun the minute you looked like getting into his pants."

"Worth the risk though," Aramis murmured dreamily. He slung an arm round Porthos' shoulders and hugged him. "Who says you get the monopoly on ill-advised sex, eh?"

Porthos kissed him on the cheek and smiled. It felt good to know that whatever happened, Aramis would still have his back.

\--

When Athos slipped out of the flat that morning at first light, he had two aims in mind. The first, and simplest, was that he wanted to tidy himself up. Having finally been granted a whole night without dreams - or at least any that he remembered - he felt clearer than he had for days, and part of that clarity brought an uncomfortable self-awareness of just how scruffy and dirty he was. 

Porthos, he felt, deserved better; and he headed home across the gradually waking city with the intention of grabbing a shower and a shave and some fresh clothes.

This was also related to the second aim. An idea had occurred to him, following Porthos' request that he consult an expert. Admittedly, it wasn't quite the sort of expert that Porthos had envisaged, but hey, Athos hadn't technically promised him any specifics. To succeed in this second aim, Athos sensed he would need to look at least vaguely respectable.

Reaching home, Athos let himself in and went through to the bathroom, nervously avoiding looking in any of the mirrors, just in case. When the steam from the shower had misted up the glass he relaxed a little, and stripped quickly.

Standing under the pounding water felt good, and as he washed himself off Athos found faint bruises on his hips that he suspected corresponded to Porthos' fingers. He let his own hands come to rest over the marks, and felt his cock stir and thicken until he was at half mast.

As soon as he was thoroughly clean, Athos shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. However nice it would be to linger over thoughts of last night, he'd woken with a sense of purpose and sensed it would be a mistake to get distracted. 

As he carefully shaved and trimmed his beard he wondered if Porthos was awake yet, and whether he was angry that Athos had left without telling him. He should have written a note, he realised. Still, too late to worry about it now.

\--

It was still early by the time he made it back to the cafe, and they clearly hadn't been open long. D'Artagnan was setting things out on the counter when Athos walked in, and grinned at him in surprise.

"Morning. Someone's up with the lark. What can I do for you?"

"A favour, actually," Athos told him. "You know you said your uncle was an authority on military history?"

D'Artagnan snorted. "I think the word I used was nut, but yeah?"

"Could you introduce me? There's something I'm trying to find out, and I think he might be able to help."

D'Artagnan cocked an sceptical eyebrow. "Your funeral."

"I'm hoping just the opposite," Athos murmured to himself as d'Artagnan yelled in the direction of the kitchen.

"Uncle! Someone wants you!" 

An older man strode out of a door at the back, wiping his hands on a teatowel and looking irritated.

"Really d'Artagnan? Upsetting a customer before nine am is surely a record even for you," he sighed, before turning to Athos and forcing a polite smile. "I'm terribly sorry sir, what seems to be the problem?"

Athos hid a smile, as d'Artagnan stuck his hands on his hips and looked indignant. 

"Oi. I haven't done anything. He wants to see your collection."

Athos hadn't even known he _had_ a collection, had just intended to pick his brains, but this sounded even more promising. 

"My name's Athos," he said, realising d'Artagnan might not actually know and therefore couldn't introduce them. "I'm -ah - doing some research. On the Musketeers."

"Are you now! Always nice to meet a fellow enthusiast. My name's Treville." He stuck his hand out and Athos shook it. "Come on up to the flat. I'm sure d'Artagnan can keep an eye on things down here for a minute." 

He beckoned Athos round behind the counter and as Athos followed him towards a door at the back, d'Artagnan thrust a coffee at him. 

"Here. You'll need it. Trust me, he'll talk for _hours_."

"Thank you," Athos said, slightly taken aback. D'Artagnan shrugged and grinned.

"What can I say? I'm a feeder."

Athos followed Treville up a steep flight of stairs and found himself in a first floor flat whose walls seemed to be ninety percent bookshelves. There was a lot of heavy dark oak furniture dotted around, and the air smelt pleasantly of polish. Treville was obviously a man who liked his things kept in order, Athos thought. He couldn't see d'Artagnan being pressed into keeping the place this spick and span.

In a room that if possible had even more books crammed into it, Treville waved Athos to a chair and proceeded to deliver a lecture of great breadth and detail, seemingly without really noticing he was doing it. It suited Athos well enough, who had come here mostly on a hunch and without really knowing what he was trying to establish.

Treville showed him pictures of portraits, and Athos felt a shiver of recognition at the clothing and the styling. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed that the faces were of strangers. But perhaps it was the height of arrogance to have assumed that their deaths should have had an impact significant enough to be remarked upon by history. 

Four corpses in a muddy winter wood. Had there been anyone to mourn them, Athos wondered. He was certain in his heart that he had been Porthos' lover, then as now, but of the other two he had no clue. He sensed they'd all been loners to a certain extent, at least outside their circle of brotherhood.

"Well, I've been droning on for long enough," Treville said with a slightly brusque note that suggested he'd noticed Athos' attention had wavered. "I'd better get back downstairs. Feel free to have a browse."

"Thank you. I'd like that. You've been very kind."

Left to his own devices Athos perused the books and papers with the frustrating feeling that there was something there to be found, if just out of reach. 

After an hour or so d’Artagnan appeared up the stairs with a couple of coffees.

"Here you go. Thought you might need it. Did he bore the pants off you?"

"No, it was very interesting," Athos said honestly. "It's just - I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm looking for which doesn't really help." He sipped his coffee and smiled at d'Artagnan. "He's very well informed. How did he get into all this?"

"Oh, he started tracing the family tree, years ago. Turned out he managed to follow the line all the way back to the seventeenth century. There was a Musketeer called d'Artagnan you know," he said, blithely oblivious to Athos' look of shock. "Which was how I ended up lumbered with this ridiculous name. I think it was supposed to be a surname, originally."

"What - what happened to him?" Athos asked faintly.

"My namesake? Died in some sort of skirmish." D'Artagnan looked briefly solemn. "Thinking about it, he'd have been about the age I am now. That's no age to die, is it?" He shook himself. "Thank God these days are a bit more civilised, eh?"

Athos nodded speechless agreement, his thoughts tumbling over one another. He'd been a fool, trying to start with the history. He'd already known there was a connection. He should have started with the _people_. 

"Hey. Bet he didn't think to show you the actually interesting stuff?" d'Artagnan asked, brightening up and moving over to a bureau. He slid one of the drawers out and felt underneath, coming up with a key that he used to unlock the top section. 

"Behold - the toys," d'Artagnan grinned with a flourish of his hand. Athos came over to look and was duly impressed. Within lay a collection of artefacts in extremely good condition - a pistol, two swords, a complicated leather arrangement that d’Artagnan said was a sword belt - and a dagger.

Athos froze, his eyes fixed on the blade.

"Beauty, isn't she?" D’Artagnan lifted it out, taking Athos' stare for interest. "Sharp as fuck too, so be careful." He offered it over and Athos actually took a step backwards. The last time he'd seen that dagger, it had been protruding from Porthos' ribs, and he suddenly felt quite faint.

"Hey - you okay?" D'Artagnan realised Athos had gone deathly pale and hastily put the dagger back on its cushion and locked up the cabinet again. "Sorry, you've been ill, right? I should have thought. Come down and have something to eat."

Athos let himself be guided back downstairs into the cafe and got another shock when he found Porthos and Aramis standing at the counter.

They looked just as surprised to see him, and Athos walked over to Porthos a little unsure of his welcome.

"Well. Fancy seeing you here," Porthos said with a look of slight suspicion towards d'Artagnan, wondering what they'd been doing upstairs together, particularly given how clean and smart Athos was looking. 

"I'm sorry. I should have left a note," Athos said contritely, and was relieved when Porthos slipped an arm round his waist.

"Never heard of text messages?" Porthos said sarcastically. "I suppose they didn’t have them in the seventeenth century?" He kissed Athos on the mouth, feeling the urge to mark his territory. D’Artagnan just grinned at them approvingly, and Porthos sighed.

"What've you been up to, anyway?"

"You told me to talk to an expert," Athos muttered. "So I found one."

Porthos gave him a hard look. "Think you're clever, don't you. So sharp you'll bloody cut yourself."

The imagery made Athos go even paler, and Porthos finally noticed he didn't look particularly well. 

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Just hungry, that's all. I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye. I'm not thinking too straight right now."

Porthos relented and kissed him again more softly. "Come on then. Let's get a table."

They settled in the corner, Aramis seemingly content to stay at the counter and chat to d'Artagnan as he moved back and forth serving people.

Athos, wedged between the wall and the reassuring warmth of Porthos' side, felt a wave of contentment roll slowly through him, and took a second to recognise it for what it was. He felt somehow more peaceful, less on edge, and realised that this was the first time all four of them had been in the same room. 

Was this the answer, he wondered. Was it just that when the four of them had died some sort of bond had been broken, whether that of brothers in arms or friendship, and that they needed to reconcile with each other? Could it be that _simple_?

Porthos nudged him and Athos jumped a little.

"Penny for your thoughts," Porthos smiled, pushing his empty plate away and settling back with a quiet burp of satisfaction. Having eaten, he was feeling more well disposed and ready to listen. "So did you find out anything interesting?"

The image of Porthos bleeding out in his arms flashed across his mind, and Athos had to take a moment to convince himself not to throw up the baked potato he'd just eaten. 

Porthos laid a concerned hand on his knee. "Do you need some air?"

"No. No, I'll be fine." 

"Athos. Talk to me. Please. I can't help if you don't."

Athos took a shaky breath. "It's just - one of the artefacts Treville has upstairs, it's - it's from my dreams," he managed, wincing inwardly, knowing that Porthos must think him either delusional or a liar, whatever he said out loud.

Porthos raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips a little, but remained silent. Athos hung his head miserably, and Porthos sighed. 

"Hey. Come on. It's alright." He rubbed Athos' back comfortingly. "What was it, anyway?"

"I can't tell you," Athos said in a small voice.

"Course you can. Come on. Lay it on me. It's Saturday, I can believe at least six impossible things on a Saturday."

Athos raised a thin smile. "It's not that. It's how it will make me sound. I don't want you to think I'm some kind of psycho."

Porthos shook his head, bewildered. "Athos. Trust me, yeah? I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

After a significant pause, Athos gave in. "It's the dagger that kills you. In my dreams."

There was a silence. After a good few seconds had ticked past, Athos risked looking up. Porthos was looking like he hardly knew whether to laugh or start running, but Athos' expression was so deeply miserable and expectant of some kind of backlash that in the end he just sighed.

"Oh Athos." Porthos gathered him into his arms. "What am I going to do with you?"

"I'm sorry." Athos leaned against him, hardly able to process the fact that Porthos had taken it with such equanimity. "I would never hurt you," he breathed. "Never. I want you to know that."

Porthos tilted Athos' face up with one finger, and kissed him. "I trust you," he said, slow and firm. "And it's going to be okay." 

His eyes slid over Athos' shoulder to a point beyond and he frowned. "Oh gawd. Here we go."

Athos turned to see what he was looking at, and discovered Aramis leaning over the counter sucking something off d'Artagnan's finger. He smiled. "That's sweet."

"Those two? It'll end in tears. Or at least broken crockery," Porthos predicted. 

"Cynic."

Porthos snorted. "Yeah, cause _my_ taste in troublesome yet attractive young men is much less worrying."

"You think I'm attractive?" Athos looked surprised.

Porthos leaned closer and murmured in his ear. "I think I want to bend you over the table and fuck you senseless."

Athos shifted in his seat, his trousers suddenly feeling a lot tighter than they had a moment ago. "We might get thrown out for being unhygienic," he pointed out.

"True." Porthos grinned. "It'd be worth it though."

At that moment raised voices startled them out of their shared reverie, and they looked round in time to see Aramis stalk out of the door in a huff and d'Artagnan make an exceedingly rude gesture at his retreating back.

D'Artagnan stomped over to their table and threw himself down in one of the spare chairs. "He didn't like my gateau," he muttered in response to their silently enquiring looks. "I mean, who insults a man's cream filling? It's rude."

Porthos snorted with laughter. "Practically a mortal insult," he agreed. "Is it to be profiteroles at dawn?"

Reluctantly, d'Artagnan started laughing too, and even Athos raised a smile. There was a feeling of security about being with these men, and even if it wasn't going to be as easy as he'd thought to find a solution, he had the feeling they would be there to help him do it.

\--

They went back to Porthos' flat and spent the afternoon curled on the couch drinking tea and simply getting to know each other a little better. After the high emotions and drama of the preceding days it was nice to spend some quiet time in each other's company, relieved to find, as they had before, that they got along very well.

As evening was drawing on, Aramis came back laden with grocery bags and offered to make them all dinner.

"I could get used to this," Porthos observed, arm round Athos and feet up on the coffee table. "He never makes dinner when it's just me."

"Maybe if you made it for me occasionally," Aramis called over. The lounge and kitchen was one large room divided by an arch, and he was stirring a pan with one hand and rooting in a cupboard with the other.

"Anyone want a drink?" he offered, then hesitated, looking at Athos.

Athos stiffened. "No, thanks, not for me," he said, stung by the implication in Aramis' expression.

"You can if you want?" Porthos said mildly. "You've got a lot going on right now. Maybe best to tackle one thing at a time, yeah?"

Athos glared at him, embarrassed. "I'm quite capable of going without for a day," he said irritably. He was. Usually. When his head wasn't presenting him with regular images of the corpses of his friends. And if he couldn't entirely remember the last day he _hadn't_ had a drink, well, Porthos was right, he had a lot on his mind. 

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look and Athos stormed to his feet, wrapping his arms defensively around himself and going to stare out the window at the darkened street below. 

"You both think I'm an alcoholic," he said bitterly.

Porthos came up behind him. "Are you?" he asked softly. Athos didn't answer, and Porthos rubbed his shoulders reassuringly. "There's no shame in it you know," he said. "We just want to help."

A little of the defensive tension went out of Athos, and he turned a fraction towards him, although wouldn't meet his eyes. 

"I didn't think I had a problem," Athos said in a low voice. "Until - until I tried to stop."

"It's okay. It's fine," Porthos promised, pulling him right round and into his arms. Athos didn't resist now, and after a moment put his own arms around Porthos' waist, accepting the embrace.

"We'll have one glass, with the food, yeah?" Porthos told him. "And then we'll go to bed."

Athos nodded, surprised by the feeling of relief that Porthos was making the decisions for him. He looked hesitantly up at Aramis, who smiled at him and nodded approval, and Athos was struck once more by how comfortable he felt in their company, even when they were telling him uncomfortable things. 

He owed them a debt, he realised. And if he could find a way to save them in the past, he would do it. Whatever it took.

\--

"I should warn you - I'll probably dream tonight," Athos said as Porthos climbed into bed beside him. Despite the previous night's escape and the way Porthos' comforting presence seemed to be suppressing it slightly, after the discoveries of the morning he suspected it was inevitable.

Porthos nodded and hugged him. "Okay," he said. "I'll be here, if you wake up. I promise. Right here, all night, right beside you. And if you want to talk, or - or you need me to hold you or whatever, I'll do it. You just let me know what you need, yeah?"

Athos felt choked, and managed a nod. "I love you," he blurted, and then could have kicked himself, because what were the chances of _that_ being a welcome statement. They'd only known each other for a matter of days, and Athos had spent most of those coming across as a damaged and needy pain in the arse.

To his surprise Porthos kissed him without hesitation. "I love you too," Porthos said. "I just do. I dunno if it's weird, or what, but - shit, Athos, it feels like - " he was about to say _I've loved you forever,_ and realised just in time that given Athos' current mental state of affairs that might not be the smartest move. "Like I want to be with you forever," he said instead, and found that he meant it.

Athos kissed him back then, full of quiet amazement, and by the time one thing had lead to another they were both fully aroused and rutting impatiently together.

They'd both gone to bed in t-shirts and boxers, intending only to go to sleep, but by now the shirts had been discarded, and it looked like the underwear wouldn’t be far behind.

Porthos leaned over and pulled the bedside drawer open, rifling through the contents in increasing frustration while Athos lay pressed against his back, one hand inside Porthos' boxers, teasing his cock unmercifully.

"Shit!" Porthos shoved the drawer shut in annoyance. "No condoms."

Athos wound his arms round Porthos' neck and drew him back down to the bed. "Never mind. We'll make do." 

"Can I suck you off?" Porthos asked, shoving Athos' boxers down to his thighs and twisting his hand deliciously around Athos' cock.

Athos hesitated. "Better not," he muttered, flushing.

"No?" Porthos looked surprised.

Athos went an even darker shade of red. "I mean, I'm sure I'm fine," he stammered. "It's just - well, I've - I've had a lot of partners, and - " he tailed off miserably, deathly afraid of seeing a look of disgust appear on Porthos' face.

Porthos though, just looked at him in slight astonishment then hugged him closer than ever, smiling and kissing him deeply. 

"Thank you," he murmured against Athos' neck. "Thank you for thinking of it. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for being brave." He kissed him again and again, then looked up with a gleam in his eye. 

"Tomorrow night," promised Porthos.

"What about tomorrow night?"

"Aramis has got some flavoured condoms somewhere." Porthos grinned. "I'm stealing them."

Athos collapsed in his arms in faint giggles. It constantly amazed him how Porthos managed to make him happy even when he was at his lowest, and he was truly thankful for it.

"Can't you steal them now?" he suggested, his hand finding its way back to Porthos' erection of its own accord.

Porthos snorted. "Our friendship covers a lot of things, but I'm not sure it includes wandering stark bollock naked into his room with a raging hard-on and asking where he keeps his condoms."

"Pity." Athos gave him a wicked smile and Porthos wrapped him in his arms and rolled them over until he was on top. 

" _You_ could always go and ask?" Porthos suggested, grinning.

"Oh, like Aramis doesn't already think I'm peculiar enough," Athos smiled, knowing he was joking. Porthos had started up a slow grind with his hips, rubbing his cock along the length of Athos', and it was making it hard to breathe. 

They stayed like that for a long while, drawing it out with lazy pleasure, each glorying in the other's body and kisses and hitching, stuttering breath. Finally they let themselves come, trying to time it together and laughing at their failure as Porthos groaned out his release seconds too early.

Warm and drowsy, they cuddled together afterwards, and Athos thought to himself that whatever the night was likely to bring, he was ready to face it.

\--

Mist swirled thickly around him, and Athos stumbled forward over rough ground he could barely make out. Cold tendrils of fog snaked about his face and neck, making him shiver and think of what might be out there, watching him.

Disoriented, he forged ahead because there was nothing else he could do, despite the nagging feeling he might be wandering in circles. Expecting at any moment to emerge into the woodland scene of the massacre, when the fog finally thinned it was with a certain surprise that he found himself standing in the middle of a cemetery. 

All about him, stretching away in numbers that he couldn't possibly have missed if he'd really just walked through them, were rows upon rows of graves, each marked with a simple wooden cross. Athos turned in a slow circle, looking apprehensively for the new burials he suspected he would find.

Sure enough, as he completed his circle, in a line that he strongly suspected hadn't been there a moment ago was a group of fresh-filled graves, stark bare earth where the others were grassed over. He'd expected four, but counted nearer twenty, and wondered for the first time how many others had died for the lack of his presence, his leadership.

"It's not fair!" His voice sounded flat on the dead, heavy air. "It wasn't me!"

The silent graves made no answer, but as he looked down again the wooden crosses had suddenly all become swords, stuck into the earth.

"Subtle." Athos glared around indignantly, starting to feel unduly victimised by his own subconscious. "What, no dancing skeletons?"

As he watched, each of the graves began to bleed where the sword points broke the earth. He inched backwards, keeping his boots just out of reach of the spreading pool of blood.

"This isn't real!" Athos shouted defiantly. "None of it!" 

Still retreating from the encroaching gore, he suddenly bumped into someone behind him and spun round swearing in alarm.

It was Aramis, although an Aramis who'd clearly been dead for some time, his face grey and his eyes dull.

"If it's not real, why are you avoiding the blood?" Aramis asked.

"Have you tried getting bloodstains out of leather?" Athos retorted, aiming for levity to hide the fact he was now so scared he wanted to pass out. Which given that he was already asleep, was presumably out of the question.

The joke fell flat, because Aramis just stared at him questioningly. "Yes."

Athos sighed. There came a saturation point when even terror became commonplace.

"Fine. What am I supposed to do, wade through it? Steep in it? Paint my face with it?"

"Embrace it." 

"Sounds sticky."

Aramis looked right through him. "You've been given a second chance. But it's not open-ended. Don't waste it."

"Why me?" Athos demanded petulantly, as Aramis turned to leave. "Why is it me that has to fix this? Why can't one of you step up? I thought you said you didn't blame me for what happened?"

Aramis paused, but didn't look round. "I don't. We don't, we never did. It was only ever you, Athos. You never forgave yourself, even in death."

He walked away between the graves, and vanished into the mist. 

Athos looked around at the ranks of the dead and shuddered, overcome by the sudden conviction that failure could mean he might be trapped here forever, lost in his own head.

\--

"Athos! Athos!" 

He awoke to find Porthos calling his name and shaking him, looking scared.

"What is it?" Athos sat up, feeling groggy and slow. "Was I disturbing you? I'm sorry."

Porthos stared at him incredulously, then seemed to sag in relief. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." Athos frowned. "Well, in the mildly fucked up sense, but yeah. Why?" He wondered with a flush of embarrassment if he'd perhaps been yelling in his sleep.

Porthos was still watching him with a wariness and concern that seemed sharper than before, and Athos shook his head in confusion. "What is it?"

"You were dreaming," Porthos said finally, with apparent reluctance. "You seemed - distressed, so I thought I'd wake you up."

Athos smiled slightly. "Thank you."

Porthos shook his head. "I couldn't. I mean - I physically couldn't. You wouldn't wake up." He looked shaken. "I was on the verge of fetching Aramis. I thought you might need a doctor or something."

"I suppose I was just really deeply asleep," Athos said, rubbing his eyes and realising that his face was wet. His first thought was that he'd been crying in his sleep, and cringed inwardly - until he realised his hair and beard and pillow were wet too.

"Porthos?"

"I chucked a glass of water over you." Porthos explained, looking embarrassed. "Athos, when I say I couldn't wake you up - I've been trying for about five minutes. I even slapped you. You weren't just asleep, you were - unconscious. Unreachable."

"I'm sorry." Athos put his arms around Porthos and hugged him. Porthos gave a choked laugh.

"You hardly have to apologise."

"I scared you," Athos said quietly. "I'm sorry for that. I seem to be going through hell, and I'm dragging you through it with me, and I'm sorry for that, too."

Porthos hugged him back. "Well I can't say I didn't have fair warning," he sighed. "And if it's hard for me I can't imagine what it's like for you."

"It would be a lot harder on my own," Athos admitted softly. 

Unable to find any suitable words, Porthos cradled Athos' face between his hands and kissed him tenderly for a long time.

\--

They both slept late the next morning. When he finally stirred, Porthos sat up in a panic before remembering it was Sunday and collapsing back in relief. Athos wound his arms sleepily around Porthos' middle and snuggled against him in protest at the idea he might be getting up, and Porthos laughed.

"It's okay. I'm not going anywhere." He kissed Athos on the top of the head and burrowed down under the covers with him. It was a nice feeling, to be able to take a moment of lazy domesticity together, and they kissed warmly, not really building up to anything but just enjoying it for what it was.

"Do you have to be anywhere today?" Athos asked eventually, not wanting to relinquish the moment, but conscious that Porthos perhaps had responsibilities that he didn't, and not wanting to cause him problems.

"Nah. I should probably do some revision at some point, but otherwise I'm yours, all day." Porthos smiled. He hesitated, then decided there might not be a better moment to satisfy his curiosity. "Do you have to be anywhere? I mean - what do you do, do you even have a job?"

Athos, to his relief, didn't looked annoyed at the question. "I do a bit of editing work," he said. "Freelance stuff. Lets me work from home." He smiled apologetically. "I'm not very good at office environments."

Porthos snorted. "I can imagine. Two days of that tedium and you'd be stapling people to the walls and spiking the coffee machine with Tia Maria."

Athos' answering smile was one of pure delight. "I can see you've been reading my references."

When they finally dragged themselves out of bed Aramis joined them in the kitchen and suggested they all go to the cafe for breakfast.

"I thought you and d'Artagnan weren't speaking," Porthos muttered suspiciously.

Aramis gave him a guileless grin. "Well, I feel it would only be fair to give him the chance to apologise."

"Weren't _you_ were the one who insulted _him_?" Athos pointed out. 

"Not my fault if he can't take constructive criticism," Aramis sniffed. 

Porthos groaned. "Oh, this can only go well."

\--

When they all trooped in, d'Artagnan gave Aramis a hard stare, then elected to ignore him in favour of smiling welcomingly at Athos and Porthos. 

"Don't you ever get a day off?" Athos asked, as d'Artagnan poured coffees for them all.

D'Artagnan winked at him. "Why, thinking of asking me out?"

"Hands off, he's mine," Porthos growled, spoiling the effect by promptly laughing.

D'Artagnan grinned at Athos. "In answer to your question, very rarely. Practically a slave, me. Appalling pay, appalling conditions..."

"I could always fire you," a voice yelled from the kitchens, and d'Artagnan's grin widened. 

"Actually I quite like it here," he confessed in an undertone. "Don't tell the old man though."

"I'll 'old man' you in a second, you little bastard," shouted the unseen Treville, and d'Artagnan ducked guiltily. 

"I swear he's got me bugged."

They all ate a hearty breakfast, and Aramis was complimentary enough about it that d'Artagnan thawed and started smiling at him again. 

Pressing his advantage, by the time they were ready to leave, Aramis had wangled both d'Artagnan's phone number and a promise to meet for a drink once he got off work.

Once they were done, Porthos went home to attempt some last minute revision and Athos made the trip across town to pick up some fresh clothes and chuck out the things in the fridge that were starting to make their presence felt. 

He owned a large apartment, bigger than the one Porthos and Aramis shared and a lot less cluttered, but right now it felt empty and echoing. The other flat felt homely and safe, and as he packed an overnight bag, Athos found he had no desire to return here again any time soon. At the same time he was afraid of overstaying his welcome, and wondered if and when he should raise the delicate question of contributing some money towards food. He'd tried to pay for everyone's breakfast, but Aramis and Porthos had insisted on buying their own. 

Athos sighed, looking at his watch and dropping into a chair. He knew he should leave Porthos in peace for a while to be able to study without distractions, but being away from him left Athos feeling exposed. He shivered, realising that the whole time he'd been back here he'd been unconsciously avoiding looking into any of the mirrors.

Now that he'd noticed he was doing it, Athos immediately experienced the bloody-minded urge to make himself do exactly what he was scared of. He got up and walked over to the largest mirror above the fake-fireplace, took a deep breath and stared straight in.

To his relief the only thing looking back at him was himself, and Athos relaxed a little. His eyes kept flitting unbidden to the corners of the reflection, but they only ever showed him the empty living room.

Finally at ease, it wasn't until he returned his attention to the reflection of his own face that Athos slowly realised all was not entirely as it should be. It was him, but - not him. The beard was fuller and more shapely, and there were deeper lines around the eyes. 

Slowly, he raised his hand to his face, checking that the closer shave of his own beard hadn't changed. The reflected hand did the same. Athos stared until his eyes began to water, just in case the reflection blinked before he did, but so far as he could tell it was just a reflection. If a reflection of someone that wasn't - quite - him.

"Don't suppose you're going to tell me anything more useful than the others?" Athos muttered, but the mirror image only ghosted the obedient echo of his words, and he sighed. 

"Am I supposed to fuck up less than you did?" Athos asked himself. "I mean my life's not exactly a shining beacon of virtue." He sighed. "What happened to you, anyway? In the end?"

In his dreams, he'd died several times attempting to save the others, but by a variety of methods. And if the first Athos hadn't originally been present at the battle, he wondered how it had ended. Had he arrived late and fallen as part of the massacre with no-one to guard his back? Or only discovered the fate of his friends afterwards?

There was a shadow falling across the reflection from somewhere, and Athos turned his head to see where it was coming from. Nothing appeared to have changed in the room behind him, but when he looked back the shadow had deepened inside the mirror until it formed a dark band around his neck. 

At first expecting to see blood, as with the accusing shade of d'Artagnan, instead Athos watched as the shadow thickened into the unmistakeable abrasions and bruises of a rope burn, and Athos' hand went to his own throat in instinctive horror as he realised the implication. 

He stumbled away from the mirror feeling sick, and it was only once he'd poured and gulped down a steadying glass of whisky that it occurred to Athos his reflection hadn't copied the final movements of his hand.

\--

"Hey. How's it going?" Porthos opened the door to the flat and smiled at him, kissing Athos on the cheek. "Get your stuff okay?" He wandered back inside, leaving Athos to close the door and follow him in.

"I've just got a bit more to do and then I'm calling it a day," Porthos called over his shoulder. "You okay to amuse yourself for half an hour or so?"

"Yeah," Athos said faintly. "Yes, of course." But he stayed standing where he was in the middle of the room, his mind so overcome with thoughts that it had taken the last of his reserves to get himself back here. 

Part of him wanted to spill everything to Porthos, if only so he didn't have to bear it alone. But he could imagine how it would sound. 

_I think he hung himself. I think he committed his soul to eternal damnation because he thought he deserved it._

_Porthos, I think I killed myself and I need you to hold me._

He couldn't say it. For one thing Porthos would probably put him on suicide watch, and for another it wasn't fair. Porthos was trying to cope with enough right now. 

Athos had stood there too long without moving and Porthos finally noticed, coming back over to him. 

"Everything alright?" he asked, kissing Athos on the mouth. He drew back and frowned a little. "Have you been drinking?"

Athos opened his mouth to deny it, then sighed. "Just one," he admitted quietly. "I - I needed it." He met Porthos' gaze with trepidation, but found only sympathy and understanding there.

"It's okay. It's okay," Porthos soothed him, stroking a thumb over his cheek and pulling him into a hug. "Come here."

"You have to work," Athos protested, as Porthos towed him across to the sofa.

"I can do both," Porthos said firmly, grabbing a book with his free hand. "Come on, that's it." He settled them both comfortably stretched out on the cushions and rested his book on Athos' shoulder, tucking him snugly in at his side.

"Okay? Better?"

Athos nodded against his chest, and Porthos dropped a kiss into his hair.

"Good."

\--

With Athos curled up against him, Porthos continued reading until his brain refused to take in any more information and he tossed the book to the carpet. Athos looked up questioningly and Porthos smiled at him, having assumed he was asleep, he'd been so still.

"Fuck it. If I don't know it by now I never will."

"When's your exam?" Athos stretched a little and nestled back against him. Just being able to lie next to Porthos, feeling him breathe, feeling his heartbeat, made Athos feel like he could cope a little better with everything.

"Tomorrow evening." Porthos made a face. "I'll be glad to get it over with."

"You'll walk it," Athos said loyally, and kissed him on the shoulder.

Porthos wrapped his arms round Athos properly, snuggling down deeper on the sofa with him and kissing him back.

"So, you wanna talk about it?" he murmured.

Athos shifted nervously. "About what?"

"About whatever's on your mind." Porthos stroked Athos' tousled hair back from his eyes and gave him a tentative smile. "You were kind've okay this morning. Did something happen, or is this just a bit of a down-swing? Is there anything I can do?" 

Athos was silent for a while, weighing up the balance of probabilities. He realised that to tell Porthos what he believed to be the truth would make him sound like he was losing his grip on reality. Which raised the stomach-churning possibility that that was, in fact, what was happening to him. What was more likely, that he was somehow channelling the consciousness of a long-dead Musketeer, or that he was having some kind of mental breakdown?

"Porthos? Will you really do something for me?" he asked finally.

"Anything. You know that."

Athos sat up a little. "If I - if I make an appointment to see someone. Will you come with me?"

"Of course I will." Porthos looked surprised. "What changed your mind?" he asked gently, having rather assumed Athos' promises in that regard had been mostly made to shut him up. 

Athos hesitated. "I've started - seeing things," he confessed. "When I'm awake. Things that aren't real."

"What kind of things?" Porthos was alarmed, but tried to keep his voice steady and calm.

Athos shrugged. "Reflections, mostly. Things that aren't there." He risked a look up, and smiled apologetically. "I think - you might be right. That I might need help. Medical help."

Porthos put his arms back round Athos carefully and hugged him. "It's gonna be alright," he promised. "We'll fix this. It'll be okay, I swear. I'll help you."

\--

With no sign of Aramis, they passed the evening quietly, Porthos fixing them some supper and Athos insisting on washing up afterwards. When they settled back on the sofa, Athos was yawning and Porthos patted him on the leg.

"Shall we go to bed? Early night?"

Athos shook his head. "Not really tired yet." He found he wasn't particularly in the mood for sex either, and was relieved when Porthos didn't press the point.

They ended up watching something mindless on the tv, although Athos' head kept lolling sideways against Porthos' shoulder, and eventually Porthos switched it off.

"I was watching that," Athos objected.

"No you weren't." Porthos smiled at him. "Look at you, you can hardly keep your eyes open. Why don't we turn in?"

Athos shook his head, and Porthos finally realised there was more to it.

"Are you scared to go to sleep?" he guessed. "Are you worried you'll dream again?"

Athos blinked miserably at him. He had a sickening feeling of dread in his stomach, a sense of time running out, that tonight might be his last battle. If he lost - he had no idea what the consequences would be for him. He wanted a drink, desperately, but at the same time was conscious that that had been his problem in the first place. It would do him no good to start out in a drunken stupor.

"I'm afraid I won't wake up again," he whispered.

Porthos stared at him for a second then enveloped him in a full body hug. "Athos. It'll be alright. I promise. I'll be there. I'll wake you, I swear." He drew back and smiled reassuringly. "Even if I have to do it with a kiss. That always works, right?"

Athos smiled back despite himself. "Well as options go it beats the glass of water method."

They laughed, the tension dissipating a little, and were just getting into a increasingly intimate kiss when the front door banged open to admit Aramis and d'Artagnan, both clearly pissed to high heaven and so wrapped up in each other that neither noticed Athos and Porthos sitting quietly on the couch.

Aramis pushed d'Artagnan up against the wall and started kissing him thoroughly. When d’Artagnan’s hands started trying to unbutton Aramis' jeans, Porthos cleared his throat loudly, and they both jumped and turned round.

"Shit." Aramis pressed a hand to his chest. "Sorry, didn't see you there."

"No kidding."

"Hey guys." D'Artagnan waved at them, grinning drunkenly. "So, I guess I forgave him."

"First person to make a cream filling joke gets thrown out of the window," Porthos warned, and d'Artagnan giggled. 

"Come on." Aramis put an arm round him and guided d’Artagnan towards his bedroom, although as neither could walk in a particularly straight line it took rather more effort than should have been necessary.

As the door banged shut behind them, Athos and Porthos turned to each other and started laughing.

"I think that's our cue," Porthos said and stood up, holding out his hands to Athos, who let himself be pulled upright.

\--

Aramis slammed the door and was immediately pushed back against it by an impatient d'Artagnan. They tugged at each other's clothes, stumbling across the floor before collapsing in a tangle on the bed, hungrily kissing each new area of exposed skin.

Looking down at d'Artagnan lying sprawled and drunk on his duvet, Aramis experienced a brief flush of guilt. Things had escalated rather quickly even by his standards, although possibly the tequila shots had been a bad idea. D'Artagnan had proved to be as shameless and reckless as he was, which was apparently a dangerous combination given that here they were after a single date, and d'Artagnan was already naked and very, very hard.

Aramis had a sudden vision of Treville coming after him with a shotgun and winced.

"Please tell me you're legal," Aramis half-groaned, face buried against d'Artagnan's chest and his cock aching for attention. 

D'Artagnan laughed, breathless and exultant. "I'm eighteen," he said, grinning down at Aramis' flushed face. "I promise." He wriggled further down and wrapped his legs around Aramis' thighs. "I could pretend to be all sweet and innocent if you'd prefer it," he added in an amused undertone. "But I confess my virginity is long gone. If you must know, to a sous-chef in the pantry on my seventeenth birthday."

Aramis laughed at his candour, kissing his way down towards d'Artagnan's groin. "What happened to him?"

"My uncle found out and fired him." D'Artagnan grinned, not looking particularly regretful. "Not before we'd screwed on his desk though."

By this point Aramis' mouth was too full of d'Artagnan's cock to be able to safely laugh, but his shoulders heaved with amusement and he nearly choked.

"Can I fuck you?" Aramis asked, crawling slowly back up d'Artagnan's lithe body and covering him in worshipful kisses.

D'Artagnan smiled wickedly. "I'd rather fuck you," he replied. "Unless you have any objections?"

"None at all," Aramis told him, wrapping his arms around d'Artagnan and rolling them over until d'Artagnan was lying sprawled and giggling on top of him. "I would be honoured."

\--

In the other room Athos and Porthos were lying in bed with the lights off when they started hearing loudly drawn out groans emanating through the wall. 

They tried to ignore it, but the level and shamelessness of it was soon making them both fidget restlessly.

Porthos sighed, turning on his side, trying to will his erection away. He could tell Athos hadn't been in the mood when they'd gone to bed and besides it was awkward, not just that he was getting horny from listening to other men having sex, but that even if it was only d'Artagnan he could hear, he knew Aramis was involved. They'd been friends for years, and had never been interested in each other in that way. Porthos had been vaguely aware of Aramis screwing in his room before now but none of his partners had ever been this - loud.

He shifted again, and suddenly his arms were unexpectedly full of Athos.

"Fuck it," Athos muttered before Porthos could say anything, then Athos was kissing him and as Porthos instinctively pushed their bodies together he found Athos was as aroused as he was.

"Oh God," Porthos groaned as Athos worked down his boxers and took his erection into his hand. "This is so wrong."

"Did you want me to stop?" Athos whispered, sliding a sinfully soft hand up his cock.

"Fuck no," Porthos said tightly. "I want you to make me come so hard I black out."

Breathy laughter against his chest, and Athos' hand tightened around him, working him slowly. Athos lay down again and now his own cock was pressed against Porthos', and he was working them both off in one spit-slick hand.

Beyond the wall d'Artagnan's moans reached new heights, although showed no signs of stopping, and they pushed against each other with a guilty desperation.

A few seconds after d'Artagnan and Aramis apparently climaxed, so did Athos and Porthos, coming all over each other in a sticky rush. They clung to each other for a long while, breathing hard and thankful that it had finally gone quiet next door.

Eventually Athos switched on the lamp and groped for some tissues to clean them both up with.

"They never get to hear about this," Porthos muttered, looking embarrassed. "Right?"

"Not a word," Athos promised, suppressing a smile. "I swear."

This time when they settled down to sleep he felt happier. Sex certainly seemed to be an effective substitution for alcohol, at least in the short term. It might not last, but for the moment he felt on top of the world, and ready to face whatever the night might bring.

\--

Dreams closed around him all too quickly.

With no real sense of how long he might have been asleep, Athos found himself staring into darkly swirling water and instinctively looked up the bank to the place that all too many times he had seen d'Artagnan's body lying, relieved to find it empty. This was so often his starting point in the dreams it had to be significant. Fix things in order. Start at the beginning.

Sure enough, a movement at the tree line drew his gaze and d'Artagnan's slim figure emerged from the wood, whole and unharmed. Athos immediately started running towards him, and d'Artagnan's surprised greeting died on his lips as he beheld Athos' grim expression.

"Athos?"

Athos kept running, and as he reached d'Artagnan he grasped the long dagger at his friend's belt and drew it out of its sheath.

"What are you - ?" d'Artagnan's startled exclamation broke off as Athos kept going, running past him and plunging in under the trees. Athos knew, had seen it happen too many times, that d'Artagnan's assailant would be waiting there. 

In previous dreams he'd tried warning d'Artagnan, shouting to him, pulling him away, but the end result had always been the same. There was only one thing left for him to try, and it was the thing he'd been dreading and avoiding. Aramis had hinted at it. Embrace the bloodshed.

Athos was conscious that he had a sword at his own belt, slapping his legs as he ran and threatening to trip him, but he wasn't confident enough in his own ability to use it. A dagger was easier. A dagger was just a big knife. 

A figure loomed out of the shadows and he had a split second to recognise the soldier that had - that would - slit d'Artagnan's throat, and Athos turned and drove home the dagger with all his strength.

He'd never killed in his life, at least not in this one, and he shuddered at the sensations as the blade slid in. Steel ripped through fabric and skin, ground briefly and jarringly against bone, and then sank to the hilt in the man's chest. Athos staggered backwards, his hand already covered in blood as the man slumped dead to the ground. On some level he hadn't expected it to be so shockingly, horrifyingly _easy_.

"Athos. Athos!" 

Abruptly he became conscious of d'Artagnan shaking him by the shoulder to get his attention, and wondered dimly how long he'd been calling his name. Athos raised shocked eyes, and found d'Artagnan looking almost as stunned.

"How did you know he was there?" D'Artagnan's look of amazement was turning to one of admiration and amusement. "God Athos, you're incredible."

He didn't feel incredible. He felt sick. Wiping his hand convulsively on his leg, Athos wondered briefly how the Athos of this time coped with killing. Whether it became second nature, merely an unpleasant duty. Or whether it was one of the reasons he drank, to escape the taint of it.

But there was gunfire deeper in the woods now, and no time for reflection. He grabbed d'Artagnan by the arm. "Aramis. Where is he?" Athos demanded. His heart screamed for him to find Porthos first, but there was an order to these events, and trying to twist them to his own ends always ended badly. He had to save them all, or he would lose them all. 

Dragging d'Artagnan after him and fighting down every instinct for self-preservation, Athos ran towards the sounds of musket fire. The smell of gunpowder was like an airborne itch prickling in his lungs, and underneath it was the heavier, disturbing smell of the charnel house. Too many had died here already, on both sides.

It occurred to Athos as he vaulted over a corpse without sparing a glance for its identity that he never had discovered who they were fighting, who it was that had drawn them to this place, to slaughter them like animals. In the fury of the moment it no longer seemed to matter. He would kill for his friends, he knew that now, regardless of cause or adversary.

Ahead, through the curling tendrils of smoke and dark trunks of pine they came in sight of a group of men huddled behind a rise in the ground. One, that Athos immediately recognised as Aramis, was taking careful aim at a distant target, musket barrel resting on a tree stump. 

His whole concentration was centred on the gun steady in his hands, and so it was only Athos and d'Artagnan who saw the flash of a red cloak between the trees give away the position of a second opponent.

Athos had been here before. Shouting a warning had only served to get Aramis shot in the front rather than the back. Pushing him out of the way had got Athos killed instead, by the man's second pistol. Heading for the enemy rather than Aramis had ended with both of them dead. But this time was different. This time, Athos wasn't alone.

D'Artagnan, faster on his feet than Athos, sprinted the last few yards through the trees and hurled himself at Aramis, tackling him round the waist and bearing them both the ground with a yell of warning. The first shot sailed harmlessly over their heads and splinters exploded from a tree trunk ten feet away. 

The marksman was raising his second gun, but now Athos was there, snatching up a loaded pistol from one of the men - both already dead, he could see that now - lying beside them, and acting on instinct and perhaps a certain borrowed ability, returned fire. 

This time the resulting burst of colour was blood rather than pinewood, and their assailant dropped like a stone and lay still.

Athos threw the empty gun away from him as if it had burned his fingers, breathing hard and not just from the running.

Aramis and d'Artagnan were helping each other to their feet. Athos walked across to them, at which point Aramis hastily pulled him down below the level of the protecting earth bank.

"Careful. One of them's still out there." Aramis wriggled back over to his musket and sighted carefully over the rise, lining up his shot again. "There you are," he murmured. A second later Aramis pulled the trigger, ducking his head from the flash, before quickly looking up to check he'd found his mark.

"Did you get him?" 

"Athos, please." 

Aramis bent low and ran back across to them. "I'm out of musket balls."

"Lucky you've got us then," d'Artagnan grinned. "We've got plenty of balls." 

Aramis snorted, aiming a slap at the back of his head. He looked at Athos. "Nice of you to join us," he said dryly.

"Nice to feel wanted," Athos retorted. "Now are we going to sit here gossiping all day or are we going to find Porthos?"

"Last I saw of him, he was intending to take them head on," Aramis told them. "A one-man berserker attack force against their commander and his unit. All ten of them."

"And you didn't think to suggest this might be a touch rash?" Athos asked sarcastically. Aramis gave him a scathing look.

"It may surprise you to know I said exactly that," he snapped. "Actually I think that was what convinced him to do it." Aramis gave Athos cold eyes. "He might have listened to you."

Athos felt the breath catch in his throat and for a second he couldn't form a reply. But then d'Artagnan slapped them both painfully on the back and urged them on with good humour.

"Then let's stop wasting time, and there'll still be a chance for him to do exactly that," d’Artagnan pointed out. "And if we're lucky, he'll have left some for us!"

They ran on through the trees towards the sounds of fighting, emerging into a clearing where they were met by the sight of an enraged Porthos, wielding both sword and dagger to such great effect that there were already four bodies littering the ground around him, while he successfully held off the combined assault of several more.

It was quickly obvious he was tiring though, and as they got closer Athos could see he was sporting numerous angry looking lacerations, although paying them no heed. It could only have been a matter of time before Porthos fell to the sheer numbers attacking him, but the unexpected arrival of Athos, Aramis and d'Artagnan gave him fresh wind, and he fought on with renewed determination.

Working together they soon dispatched the remaining men in a brutal slashing of blades and pounding of fists. Athos found after all his sword would do as he wished without having to think about it, and let himself be carried away by the fury of the moment, until they were the only ones left standing.

Panting hard and shaking from the adrenaline, wondering if this was it, if they were all alive that he'd finally managed to put things right, Athos swayed under the impact of a hearty shoulder-slap from Porthos, who by now was grinning broadly at him.

"I knew you'd make it!" Porthos declared, then peered more closely at Athos and frowned slightly. Whatever he'd been about to say next was lost in a yell from d'Artagnan, the only one to notice one of their assailants was not dead after all, and had surged to his feet clutching a bloody dagger.

"Athos!"

Athos spun round to find the man lunging at him, too quickly for him to react. Rooted to the spot he could only watch as the blade sliced towards his unprotected chest with a sense of awful inevitability.

But if his assailant was fast, Porthos was faster. He flung himself protectively in front of Athos with a furious bellow and the two men came together in a sickening collision.

The next few seconds dragged out like years, the five of them frozen in shock. Then Porthos stumbled backwards, the hilt of a dagger projecting from his ribs, and Athos caught him as he fell.

"No. No, no, no," Athos moaned, trying to keep Porthos upright as he sagged against him. He was almost oblivious to Aramis in the background, practically removing the other man's head with a single stroke of his sword, incandescent with rage.

Porthos was gripping the front of Athos' jacket with weakening fingers and dropped to his knees, Athos going with him, trying to staunch the spreading blood with his hand.

"Why?" Athos begged uselessly. "Why did you - "

"Why do you think?" Porthos managed a smile, then coughed painfully. He moved his own hand to the hilt of the dagger as if to draw it out, and Athos wrapped his own hand hastily round his fingers.

"No. No, leave it for now. It'll help, trust me." He stared at Porthos in desperation, praying it wasn't too late. "Just - hang in there," he muttered. "And don't you dare die on me. That's an order." 

He was trying to remember what he'd been told, the instructions a confused jumble in his head. Staunch the bleeding. Keep him warm. Don't remove the knife, wait for the emergency services. Athos gave a bitter laugh, his hands slick with Porthos' blood. But then again - he looked up at Aramis, now crouching beside them, silent and pale. "Can you help?" 

Aramis took hold of one of Porthos' hands, squeezing it reassuringly with a smile, then spoke in a quiet aside to Athos. "It missed his heart, or he'd be dead already. If it didn't sever anything else vital, I might be able to stitch him up. Not here though."

"There's a cottage a little way back," d'Artagnan offered. "I passed it. It's not far."

"That'll have to do." Athos cradled Porthos' face in one hand, leaving smears of blood behind. "Can you walk?"

"Guess we'll find out," Porthos said gamely. He tried to rise but the pain was too much and the blood ran freely again between Athos' fingers.

"Shit." Athos snatched the scarf from round his neck and wadded it over the wound, folding it inside Porthos' leather jerkin and wincing as it made him groan with agony. He fumbled with Porthos' sword belt, discarding his accoutrements and strapping the leather band around his chest instead, to keep the makeshift padding in place. 

Athos drew Porthos' own hands up to his chest. "Here. Put pressure on, keep them there, can you do that for me?"

Porthos did as he was told, but he was finding it hard to concentrate by now. The rate of blood-loss had slowed but his life was still dripping away, second by precious second.

They made slings of their cloaks and between them half carried, half-dragged Porthos the quarter-mile back to the stone cottage d'Artagnan had remarked upon. It was deserted, the occupants presumably having fled at the first sign of fighting.

D'Artagnan cleared the stout kitchen table and Athos and Aramis laid Porthos on it, by now barely conscious.

"Find something for bandages," Athos told d'Artagnan tersely. "Rip up sheets if you have to. And fetch water. This needs to be clean."

He eased Porthos' blood-soaked clothes away from the wound, keeping the pressure up, and helped Aramis wash the blood away until they could see what they were dealing with. It was a deceptively neat wound, for all its potential to be so deadly.

Porthos was half delirious by now, and he clutched at Athos' hand. Athos bent over him, stroking his brow and murmuring soothing noises.

"I want you to know," Porthos managed. "There's no man I'd rather die for."

Athos swallowed hard. "How about you concentrate on living for me instead, eh?" he replied. "You're not dying on me Porthos. I won't let you. Not this time," he added in an undertone.

He looked at Aramis. "You're going to have to take the dagger out."

Aramis walked a few steps away, and Athos followed. "What's wrong?" he hissed.

"It's possible it'll cause more damage on the way out than when it went in," Aramis whispered. "Pulling it out might kill him."

"Leaving it in certainly will," Athos retorted. "It's going to have to come out sooner or later." He patted Aramis on the arm. "And you're the one with the steadiest hands. Do your best Aramis. That's all I ask."

Aramis looked at him and nodded, taking a deep breath. Athos returned to Porthos on the table, unthreading his belt and raising it to Porthos' mouth.

"Bite down on this. It's probably going to hurt."

Porthos mustered a defiant smirk. "Not the first time you've said that," he muttered, only loud enough for Athos to hear, before taking the leather strap obediently between his teeth. Athos felt a helpless smile twist his lips, and stood ready to brace him as Aramis positioned himself on the other side of the table.

"D'Artagnan, hold his legs. We'll need to keep him still," Athos directed, then nodded at Aramis, who took hold of the hilt and slowly and steadily drew it out. 

Porthos gave a muffled scream, thrashing under the combined weight of Athos and d'Artagnan, but Aramis had successfully removed the blade, and Athos was immediately there with clean wadding, pressing down on the wound against the renewed flow of blood. 

With d'Artagnan passing thread and bandages, and Athos half holding Porthos down and half holding him together with murmured encouragements, Aramis sewed the wound neatly together. Then they bound his chest securely with fresh linen and watched tensely for any sign of blood, until it seemed certain the stitching was secure.

Afterwards Porthos finally subsided into a fainting sleep, and Athos watched anxiously over him while Aramis washed his hands and carefully rolled up his surgeon's kit.

"He'll sleep now," Aramis said, laying a gentle hand on Athos' shoulder. "It's the best thing for him."

Athos nodded silently. They moved Porthos carefully to the cottage's bed and wrapped him in blankets and furs to keep him warm.

"You know, you should probably round up the rest of the men," Aramis murmured after a while. 

Athos refused to look up. "I'm not leaving him," he said stubbornly.

"There are men still fighting out there Athos, and it's all going to hell. They need someone to follow. Someone they trust."

Athos got reluctantly to his feet, looking from the sleeping Porthos to Aramis with a lost expression.

"I won't let him die," Aramis vowed quietly, guessing his thoughts. "You have my word on that."

Athos nodded finally, and moved towards the door. 

"Athos." At Aramis' call, he looked back. "Thank you."

Athos half-smiled. "You did the skilled part."

"You were the one who wouldn't let us give up. Thank you."

Athos nodded, and walked through the cottage's front door. It seemed bright outside after the dim interior, and he blinked painfully. It was so bright he couldn't see his surroundings and he hesitated, afraid of walking into a crossfire. Then, gradually, he became aware that it wasn't the sun in his eyes at all, but the bulb of the bedside lamp and experienced a moment of utter disorientation, so completely caught up had he become in events of the other place.

His first feeling was one of frustration, that he should wake now, without a clear idea of whether he had been successful, or knowing Porthos' ultimate fate. Then as his head cleared he realised the reason the lamp was on was that Porthos, here and now, was sitting up awake, and distressed. 

"Porthos? You okay?" Athos struggled up into a sitting position. Porthos was breathing hard and shuddering slightly, his arms wrapped defensively around himself.

Porthos stared at him, apparently trying to work out what to say. "Are dreams infectious?" he said finally. "Because if what my head just conjured up is anything like what you've been going through, you're a fuckload stronger than I've been giving you credit for."

Athos stared back at him. "What are you talking about? What did you dream?" 

Porthos gave a shaky laugh, calming slightly now that Athos was awake, and he wasn't alone with his thoughts. "Doesn't matter. Probably shouldn't..."

"What? Encourage me?" Athos finished dryly. 

Porthos sighed, still visibly shaken, and Athos took his hand. "Tell me?" he coaxed.

"It must have been all your talk about Musketeers and people fighting and shit," Porthos said eventually. "Dreamt I was one of them, didn't I? Getting fucking stabbed, just like you said." He managed a rueful smile. "Still, I dreamt you were there to save me, so there's that." He finally realised Athos was staring at him with a glassy expression, and frowned. "Athos?"

"That's what I just dreamt," Athos said faintly. "Exactly that. Well, part of it."

Porthos gave him a sideways look. "You know you only ever claim stuff after the event?" he said shrewdly. "It's always 'oh that was from my dream'. You do realise that?"

Athos glared at him, feeling like he'd been slapped. "After all this, you're accusing me of making it up?" he demanded.

"No. _No_." Porthos tried to pacify him. "Not consciously," he added, and Athos jerked his hands away and got out of bed, pulling on his jeans. "Athos! Come back!"

"Fuck you." He pulled on his shirt and was looking for his shoes when Porthos came across and put his arms round him in something that was more wrestling hold than hug. He held him tightly until Athos stopped struggling to get away and gave up, standing there resignedly.

"Come back to bed," Porthos pleaded. "I'm sorry. I'm a twat. I had a nasty dream, and I was blaming you for it, and that's not fair. I'm sorry."

"You want specifics? A man was going to kill d’Artagnan," Athos said in a flat voice, staring somewhere over Porthos' shoulder. "Except I killed him first, stabbed him through the heart with d'Artagnan's own dagger. We saved Aramis together, d'Artagnan pushed him to safety before he could be hit by musket fire, and I shot the man who would have killed him. And then you. You were outnumbered. Bleeding. I thought we'd saved you, but then you threw yourself in front of the blade that would have killed me." 

He finally looked up at Porthos, bleakly. "Was that enough detail for you, or would you like me to describe the way it feels to kill someone? How it feels to drive a knife between someone's ribs and spill their blood all over your hands? How it feels to shoot a man through the head? How it feels to drive a sword into a man's guts and twist? Because I can, now. And I wish to God I couldn't."

Athos could feel helpless tears forming and tried angrily to blink them away, wishing he could take back everything he'd just said, knowing he must have confirmed all Porthos' fears about him being some kind of psycho.

But somehow Porthos was still there, still had his arms around him, was still listening to him, and holding him.

"I love you Athos," Porthos said quietly, when it became apparent he'd finished. "I don’t know what the fuck's happening to you, or how to make it better, but please don't walk out on me."

Athos blinked at him, having forgotten that it was him that had initially tried to leave, having by now been expecting Porthos to throw him out.

"I'm not going anywhere," he sighed, and Porthos relaxed with a quiet groan, hugging Athos to him all the tighter. 

As they stood there in each other's arms, Porthos naked and Athos in jeans and open shirt, they became aware of quiet but animated voices coming from the kitchen. Porthos frowned, looking at the clock which read some time after two AM. 

"Midnight snack?" Athos guessed. "Maybe they worked up an appetite."

Porthos snorted, and smiled at last. "I could do with a cup of tea myself," he admitted. "Fancy joining them?"

Athos nodded. "You might want to put a robe on first though. D'Artagnan might feel like helping himself to a second course."

They ventured out cautiously, relieved to find both Aramis and d'Artagnan were at least decently covered.

"Evening," said Porthos. "Or is it morning?"

"Sorry, did we wake you up?" asked Aramis, looking apologetic. 

"No, we were already awake," Athos assured him, taking one of the spare chairs while Porthos put the kettle on again.

"We were trying to keep it down. But it was just so unbelievable that we got a bit worked up about it you see," Aramis explained, or rather didn’t, because Athos and Porthos both looked at him uncomprehendingly. 

"We've both just had _exactly_ the same dream," d'Artagnan put in, leaning forward and looking excited and disbelieving at the same time. "I mean, what the fuck? How does that even happen?"

"What - sort of dream?" Athos asked cautiously. 

D'Artagnan grinned at him. "I blame you. All your talk of Musketeers and showing you those weapons yesterday. Must have put the idea in our heads. You were in it as well. And you were." He pointed at Porthos, who glowered at him. 

"Does that make me the scarecrow, or the cowardly lion?"

"I dunno but I think it makes Athos Dorothy," d'Artagnan grinned, putting his feet up on the table and inadvertently gifting everyone with the knowledge he was naked under Aramis' dressing gown.

"What happened, exactly?" Athos asked quietly, painfully aware that Porthos had a face like thunder, but needing to know.

"You saved my life." D'Artagnan clasped his hands to his chest and fluttered his eyelashes at Athos, making Aramis snort with laughter and Porthos look crosser than ever. "No, you did though. You stabbed this bloke. With _my_ dagger. Blooming cheek." 

He grinned, and let Aramis take up the story, who related the events of the rest of Athos' dream, then sat back looking thoughtful. "What do you make of that? Some kind of sympathetic resonance maybe, we picked up on what you've been talking about Athos? But for two of us to dream exactly the same scene? Weird. Seriously weird."

"Not just two," Athos said quietly. "We all dreamed it," he said. "We all dreamed the same thing. All four of us."

Porthos stood up suddenly and walked out of the room, leaving Athos staring after him, looking startled and more than a little hurt. 

He followed Porthos cautiously into the bedroom and found him sitting on the bed, staring blankly ahead. Slowly, Athos sat down next to him.

"Are you angry with me?" Athos asked, not sure entirely what he'd done but sensing that Porthos was boiling under the surface.

Porthos finally blinked and looked at him, to Athos' relief looking startled at his question. 

"Angry with you? No." He hesitated, as if not knowing what to say. "Athos - " he broke off again.

Athos shifted closer and laid his head gingerly on Porthos' shoulder. 

"I thought you were cracking up," Porthos said finally. "But if that's even a taste of the kind of shit you've been dealing with every night, now I'm just amazed you haven't." 

"I had help," Athos smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

Porthos gave him a bewildered look, the look of a man who'd been given the proof he'd demanded, and now didn't know what to do with it. "What just happened, Athos?" he pleaded. "Are you saying it's somehow all real?"

"I don't know," Athos confessed helplessly. "I've never been sure if it was all in my head. And I can't explain how you all saw the same thing. I just know that somehow, whatever it was, it was important. And - and if it helps, I think maybe it's over."

"You fixed it?" Porthos said. "Does that mean you don’t need me any more then?" he asked hesitantly. Athos looked alarmed.

"Don't you dare. Don't you - dare." He grabbed Porthos and kissed him hard then hugged him until he felt Porthos relax.

Alright." Porthos conceded softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Good." 

"I love you," Athos whispered. "And I am never letting you go. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me. And you probably get the shitty end of that bargain, but - "

Porthos interrupted him with a kiss. "Shhh." He laid a gentle finger on Athos' lips. "I want you just as much. You know that. Don't put yourself down."

Somewhere outside a door closed, suggesting Aramis and d'Artagnan had gone back to bed. Porthos stifled a yawn, and gave Athos sleepy eyes.

"Can we deal with this in the morning? I feel like I've gone ten rounds with a boxing champ."

"Who says you haven't?" Athos asked mischievously, and Porthos growled at him, crawling over the bed to wriggle back under the duvet.

"If my subconscious, or unconscious, or higher consciousness or whatever the fuck label you want to put on it, has got to run around all night wearing me out, can you just dream us screwing next time?"

Athos climbed in after him, having slipped off his jeans and shirt. "I'm not sure it works like that," he said, smiling as Porthos folded him immediately into his arms.

"Well that sucks, who do I complain to?" Porthos grumbled, kissing him on the temple.

Athos settled down against him contentedly. "You don't. Life's a bitch." He closed his eyes and smiled. "But it is at least life. And that, my friend, is a bonus."

\--

He hadn't thought he would dream again that night, had even wondered if he would ever have the same dreams again at all - so when Athos found himself once more at the edge of the wood by the river his heart sank, wondering if he'd failed, if he had to start all over again. 

Gradually though, he realised it was different, and it took him a moment to work out what it was. Whereas before everything had been cold and grey, this time the sun was shining and the river, previously so black and threatening was running fast, with a bright, cold sparkle. The scrubby grass was a vibrant green, and even the winter trees were starting to show a hint of leaf bud.

A movement to the side drew his gaze, and Athos found to his surprise that rather than d'Artagnan, it was Porthos walking towards him out of the trees.

Athos felt his heart thump with recognition and hope as Porthos nodded to him, in wary but friendly greeting. Athos looked at him curiously, relieved to see he was still well bandaged and strapped, moving a little slowly, but obviously recuperating. 

"I've got a question," Porthos said, without preamble.

"Go on." Athos gave him a hesitant smile.

"Who are you?"

Athos was taken aback. "Athos?" he ventured.

Porthos shook his head slightly, looking more puzzled than suspicious. "Not my Athos you're not. Close, but - you're different somehow. I can tell, even if the others can't. Maybe I'm just that bit closer to him," he explained, with a duck of the head that seemed at once both proud and faintly guilty.

Athos didn't argue the point, wondering how to explain it when he didn't really know himself. "Maybe it's more that - I will be. One day."

Porthos just nodded, accepting what he couldn't understand because the evidence was in front of him. 

"Thank you," he said quietly. "You saved my life. And - I don't know how, but it feels like somehow you've done more than that."

Athos smiled slightly. "Put things back the way they always should have been, perhaps."

Porthos looked at him thoughtfully, as if wondering who or what he really was. "Am I there with you? Wherever you are?" 

"Yes."

Porthos nodded. "Good." 

They looked at each other.

"He needs you, you know," Athos said. "Your Athos. More than you realise. Be there for him?"

Porthos sighed. "I always thought he'd manage. That underneath he had it all figured out. But maybe there were just too many demons for one man. I thought it was enough just to trust him, when all the time I should have been helping him." 

"It's not too late. Not now."

"Thank you." To Athos' surprise, Porthos leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, before turning and walking away.

The dream-scenery shifted, and now Athos was watching Porthos walk towards a group of men and horses. He recognised Aramis and d’Artagnan, already mounted, and holding a horse for Porthos. And then Athos realised with a shiver that there was a fourth horse and rider, silhouetted against the setting sun, so that he couldn't quite make out their features.

He got the sense that attentive eyes were looking at him though, from beneath the angled brim of the hat. As Porthos mounted up and the others turned away, all seemingly oblivious to Athos' presence, the fourth man lifted his hand to his hat in apparent salute, then turned and rode after them until all Athos could see was the sunlight.

\--

Athos awoke with a sense of both completeness and loss. He knew now he had done what needed to be done, but success also meant that he would never see them again, and despite the strain and the unrelenting gore of his dreams, he'd grown close to each of them. There were tears on his face, and as he sat up, Porthos, getting dressed next to the bed, noticed and sank down in alarm to reach out to him.

"Athos! What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Athos smiled at him, not moving to wipe away the tears still tracking down his cheeks. "It's fine. Everything's fine." He hugged Porthos, who still looked worried. "I mean it," he murmured. "It's going to be okay. It really is."

"Well. If you say so." Porthos laughed, tousling his hair in relief. "Look, I have to go to work, will you be alright?"

Athos nodded, and kissed him on the cheek. "I will. I promise. You go." 

"I've got to go direct to the college after work, too," Porthos said hesitantly. "This stupid exam. I probably won't be back till about eight." He looked hopefully at Athos. "Will you be here?"

"Yes. If you want me to be?" 

Porthos looked unaccustomedly shy. "Would it sound too weird if I said I'd like to come home to you every day for the rest of my life?" He gave a sheepish laugh. "Given that we've only really known each other for a week and all?"

Athos smiled at him. "Not in the slightest," he promised. "It sounds like everything I never knew I wanted."

They kissed each other warmly, before Porthos reluctantly pulled away. "I have to go. I'll see you later."

"Porthos," Athos called after him, and smiled when he turned in the doorway. "Good luck."

When he'd gone, Athos lay there a while longer, going over the events of the night in his mind. He felt oddly at peace with himself, more so than he could remember being for a long time. He sensed it would be easy to slip into old bad habits though, and he made himself get up and shower.

When he emerged, he found Aramis and d'Artagnan in the kitchen finishing breakfast and looking rough.

"Blimey," Athos smiled. "Remind me not to need treating in A&E today."

"Feels like I've pulled a ten hour shift already," Aramis complained, yawning.

D'Artagnan was slumped over his coffee, hair hanging limply over his face and dark shadows under his eyes. He waved half-heartedly at Athos, who grinned.

"Tell me if you're planning on working in the kitchens today, and I'll avoid the cafe too."

Aramis laughed. "Careful. He's touchy about his cooking."

Athos made himself a cup of tea and settled down at the table as the others got up to go to work.

"You sticking around?" Aramis asked.

"Is that alright?" 

"Yeah, course. Not like there's anything worth stealing," Aramis told him with a laugh. He dug in a kitchen drawer and flipped something across the table. "Here. Spare key. Don't suppose it occurred to Porthos to give you one." D’Artagnan opened his mouth and Aramis held up a finger. "Don't. It's too early for your innuendo."

"Not what you were saying an hour ago," d'Artagnan smirked, and wrapped a possessive arm around his waist.

When they'd gone, Athos relaxed into the quiet. He felt at home here, even alone, and it helped him think. There were things that needed to be done, and now he had a whole free day to get his thoughts in order.

He considered going grocery shopping, on the grounds if they objected it would be easier to apologise after the event than get them to accept money up front. This lead on to the idea that he could make everyone dinner, which would be an excuse for stocking the fridge under the radar. Athos made himself a second mug of tea, and settled down to do some planning.

\--

When Porthos came home that evening just after eight, he was met by the sight of Athos with his sleeves rolled up and a tea towel over his shoulder, and a savoury smell wafting through the flat that made his mouth water and his stomach growl.

"Hey. How'd it go?" Athos came over and kissed him.

"Alright. I think." Porthos shrugged. "Can never tell really can you? I don't think I fucked it up completely, but who knows?"

"Cautiously optimistic then?" Athos smiled, putting his arms round him.

"Yeah." Porthos smiled at him, hugging him close. "Is this you cooking? I didn't know you cooked."

"Full of surprises, me," Athos laughed. "Here, I bought you something." He went over to the fridge and showed him a bottle of champagne.

Porthos laughed in surprise. "Bloody hell! I haven't passed yet!"

"So, when you pass, I'll buy you another one."

"More money than sense, you," Porthos muttered, but he was smiling. 

"Then hopefully you've got the sense to enjoy it," Athos smiled back.

"Have I got time for a shower?" Porthos asked, nuzzling Athos' neck.

"Yeah, sure. It's all in on low, it'll look after itself for a while," Athos assured him. "Want me to scrub your back?" he teased.

Porthos gave a low groan. "Fuck, we'd be in there all night. I'd snap and have to screw you up against the tiles." He kissed Athos, hard and intent. "Hold that thought though." 

\--

Not long after Porthos came back from his shower, the front door opened to admit Aramis, with d'Artagnan in tow. "Look who I found," Aramis grinned, his arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Ooh, something smells good."

"Hope you're hungry," Athos told them. "I made loads."

Aramis beamed at him. "Oh my God, you're a saint." He turned and jabbed a stern finger at Porthos. "This one cooks, don't fuck it up."

"Yours cooks too," Porthos pointed out, and d'Artagnan cheerfully gave him the finger.

"I cook all day," he grinned. "Disinclined to do it after hours."

"Fortunately, he has other talents," Aramis smirked.

"We know," Porthos said darkly. "Silent orgasm not being one of them."

D'Artagnan burst out in giggles. "Sorry. Always been a failing. Can't keep my mouth shut." He smirked suggestively at Aramis, who was determinedly pretending he was oblivious to the entire conversation. 

"Whose is the champagne?" Aramis asked, nosing in the fridge and hoping to change the subject. "Oh, shit, yes of course, how was the exam?"

Porthos shrugged. "Could have been worse. Guess we have to wait and see now. Will you have some?" He took the bottle from Aramis and opened it with a festive pop, as Athos brought three glasses over. 

"None for me thanks," Athos said, and Porthos raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"You can have a glass, surely?" he offered, but Athos shook his head. 

"I - made some calls this afternoon. I've got an appointment tomorrow to go and see someone. Talk through my options. Sort out some kind of programme," he said quietly. 

Porthos stared at Athos, then put down the bottle and wound his arms round him. "Did you want me to duck out of work and come with you?" he offered, conscious of his promise.

"No, you're alright," Athos said. "Thank you though." In the end, it had proved easier than he'd expected to make the decision and the arrangements. Easier than facing down a body of armed soldiers or holding his bleeding lover in his arms, anyway. "Besides, you get the hard part. Making me stay on it afterwards. I've a feeling it might not be pretty."

"We'll do it," Porthos promised, giving him a squeeze. "It'll be okay. However hard it gets."

Athos leaned closer. "I made another appointment too," he murmured, while Aramis and d'Artagnan were distracted. "To get myself - you know. Checked out and stuff."

"You have been busy." Porthos kissed him. "Guess I'd better do the same then. Then we can be _really_ filthy," he smirked.

The kiss that followed left them both half-minded to skip dinner, but everyone was hungry and sense prevailed.

Afterwards they all sat around talking, well fed and happy.

Conversation drifted round to the shared dream of the night before, d'Artagnan still captivated and amused by the idea.

"You know, it's funny," he said to Athos. "Do you remember asking me if I'd dreamed anything like it before, that day in the cafe with your friend's drawings? It only occurred to me later, I used to dream that sort of thing when I was little. Brought up on my uncle's stories I guess." He grinned. "I used to think it was great having an ancestor who had a sword."

"Easily amused," mouthed Aramis, getting up, and dodging out of the way of d'Artagnan's lazy swipe at him. 

Athos was staring consideringly at d'Artagnan. He'd reluctantly come to accept the fact that perhaps it really had all been in his head, and that maybe it should be enough, that he'd come through it. The idea that there was any way he could somehow have influenced events that took place centuries earlier seemed ludicrous in the cold light of day. You couldn't change history. But then, theoretically four people couldn't share the same dream, either.

"It was a shame he died so young," Athos ventured, half-afraid to have it confirmed.

"What are you talking about?" D'Artagnan looked confused. 

"Your ancestor. You said he was killed in battle. At about your age."

"Eh? Nah. Could hardly be my ancestor then, could he? No, he lived to a ripe old age, became a baron or something. Had about six kids." D'Artagnan made a face. "Rather him than me."

Before Athos, astonished, could say anything in reply Aramis came back out of his bedroom, frowning. 

"Porthos, I don't suppose you'd know the whereabouts of my emergency pack of condoms?" he asked suspiciously.

Porthos gave him a blank face. "Why would I know that?"

Aramis sighed. "Can't find them. I'll have to get some more." He laid a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, stroking a finger up his neck. "Fancy a walk?"

"Yeah. You can buy me a drink while we're at it," d'Artagnan said, then winced and looked apologetically at Athos.

Athos smiled at him. "You can talk about it you know. I'm not going to suddenly spontaneously combust at the mention of alcohol."

"Right. Sorry." D'Artagnan smiled back, and slung an arm round Aramis' waist. "Come on you. Let's give them some peace."

After they'd gone, Athos looked sideways at Porthos. "When you said you had no idea where Aramis' condoms were?" 

"It's just possible they might be in my back pocket," Porthos confessed with an unrepentant grin.

"Would these be the flavoured ones by any chance?" Athos asked speculatively.

Porthos waggled his eyebrows. "Might be."

"Hope they're not whisky flavoured," Athos smirked. "That would be awkward."

Porthos snorted. "Raspberry, I think. I should warn you, they're probably revolting."

"I've never had a raspberry cock in my mouth," Athos mused.

"Life's just full of new opportunities, isn't it?"

They leaned against each other, happy enough for the moment just to be together and contemplate the immediate future.

"Funny, isn't it," Porthos mused. "How we've all ended up together. The four from your dreams." He eyed Athos, smiling slightly. "I suppose you'll say it was fate."

Athos smiled back noncommittally, and Porthos laughed. "What did d'Artagnan say just now that surprised you so much?" he asked. "You looked - what's the word? Thunderstruck."

Athos looked at his hands. "Before, when I went to see Treville, D'Artagnan told me that his ancestor died at the age he is now, in some kind of skirmish. But now he has no recollection of that, he just claimed he lived a lot longer."

"And so you think you've somehow changed history?" Porthos said, not entirely keeping the note of scepticism out of his voice.

"Corrected it, maybe." Athos smiled, unable to stop himself. "I thought I'd never know for sure. If it was all just in my head. But now I know. I did it, Porthos. I fucking did it."

Porthos looked at him, thinking how Athos looked different somehow, as if a weight had been lifted from him. There was still a reserve there, but he looked happier than Porthos ever remembered seeing him. He smiled.

"Course you did. You're brilliant."

Athos looked at him suspiciously, but Porthos seemed entirely serious.

"Do you _believe_ me now then?"

Porthos regarded him levelly. "Yes."

Athos held his gaze for a moment, then his eyes crinkled in a smile. "Liar."

Porthos gave a snort of laughter, smiling back and kissing him. "I love you. Will that do?"

Athos tilted his head. "Enough to suck my synthetically raspberry flavoured cock?"

"More than enough."

"In that case, perhaps you should take me to bed before they come back?" Athos murmured, and Porthos gave a delighted cackle. He stood up, and before Athos could protest, had swept him up into his arms.

"You're crazy, you know that?" Athos asked, amused, as Porthos started carrying him towards the bedroom like a prize.

"Well that makes two of us."

Athos gave a shout of laughter. "Oh, that's cold."

Porthos grinned, only a little guiltily. "I'm sure you'll let me make it up to you." He pushed the bedroom door shut with his foot and dropped Athos onto the bed. 

"How about we start right now?"

\--


End file.
